


full bleed

by majorrager



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Ambiguous Relationships, Animal Death, Depression, Drugs, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Slut Shaming, Suicide Attempt, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-04-14 19:43:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 57,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4577451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majorrager/pseuds/majorrager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm the only person here who cares what Nathan is going through."</p><p>Nobody looks out for kids like them, and Victoria knows it. That's why she has to play it hard. It's why they have to wear one another like armor. </p><p>(A character study of Victoria, and of Nathan through her eyes. A pre-canon exploration of the nature of the relationship between these characters that leads up to and includes the events of the game.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. safelight

**Author's Note:**

> This is a character study of Victoria, and of Nathan; it's an exploration of their relationship and the things that might have brought and kept them together. Canon failed to really get into what these two had going on with one another, which was hugely disappointing to me, because what we _did_ get was really fascinating. This fic is an attempt at reconciling what we know about them with all of the questions I had left over— like what made them friends in the first place? What is the exact nature of their relationship? How much did Victoria know and not know about Nathan? What the hell were his true feelings towards her? Did she really matter to him or not? What would the sum of all of these parts be in the end?
> 
> The relationship between these characters isn't necessarily platonic in this fic, but it's not romantic, either; I have taken the position that what they have is a lot more difficult to define than with either one of those labels, hence why this piece is categorized under both types of tags. This fic also features Rachel Amber and Mark Jefferson as key figures in a bid to untangle what exactly they had going on with both Nathan and Victoria, along with a whole lot of minor characters. I began writing this fic before _Polarized_ was released, but after it came out, I went back through it and updated it to fully comply with what we learned in the final episode. Still, I've had to take a few liberties because canon has left so many gaps wide open; it begins with the idea that Victoria and Nathan have known each other since late childhood and moves on through the years right up to the events depicted in _Life is Strange_.
> 
> Please keep an eye on the tags, because additional warnings are added with chapters as they are posted, and this fic gets heavier with each subsequent one. Also: this fic has a playlist that goes with it. If you're someone that likes to hear the music that helped shape a piece, you can find the track list and link to it [here](http://mjrrgr.tumblr.com/post/131403956133/exposure-a-nathan-and-victoria-playlist-curated).
> 
> Anyway, that's more than enough for an author's note, lmao. Thanks for bearing with me! Feedback is really important to me, so feel free to share any of your comments, questions, or critiques, and thank you for taking the time to check this work out in the first place.

The first time she meets him, she's eleven years old in kitten heels a size too big for her and a cashmere skirt, and he's twelve, a boy in patent leather shoes and a shirt buttoned nearly all the way to the throat. He's standing resolutely at the side of a broad shouldered man that Victoria thinks has to be his grandfather. There are dusty patches in the man's hair, and they make him look rough even though he's dressed to the nines otherwise, and there are hard lines raked into his face, like someone's nails have stabbed him through eyeball to jawbone. The boy doesn't look anything like him, pale and poor postured, sinking down into the floor like melting candle wax, and he won't meet her gaze, even though Victoria keeps trying to catch it. Every time she comes close to snagging it, his eyes flicker away again.  
  
"We were looking to commission a piece for the summer exhibit..." her mother says, and the voices drone on with negotiations and terms Victoria doesn't understand nor care for.  
  
She crosses her legs at the ankles and weaves her fingers together, studying the boy. There is a tall girl beside him with the same caramel colored hair, a little older than her, but one glance at her hadn't been all that interesting. It's the boy that's had her focus from the start. Maybe her staring goes on for a few seconds too long, because a response seems to suddenly roll through his shoulders, an _oh-really_ , a _you-want-it-like-that_ , and now he acknowledges her, looks up at her with his eyes narrowed and face wrenched into a scowl.  
  
_What_ , he mouths at her, _what?_  
  
The Chase Space is her parents' facility, but he's looking at her like _she's_ the one that doesn't belong here, and that makes her sharp and defensive. He's not the one who grew up in these halls, who took his first steps on the slick alabaster tiles, who can name every exhibit that's ever gone through it.  
  
His eyes are so hard. She already dislikes him. Victoria tips her chin up and lifts her brows and looks away: _Nothing._  
  
"Kristine," says Sean Prescott, whose name Victoria knows because, she thinks, who _wouldn't_ know it if they've ever been to Arcadia Bay, "why don't you take Nathan and Vicky outside?"  
  
Irritation spreads through her. She doesn't know this man. She's never spoken to him before. Even if her mother had introduced her to him as _Vicky_ , it isn't his name to use. It's hardly her mother's name to use, either. She wants to be _Victoria_.  
  
The older girl puts a hand on the boy's shoulder and smiles at Victoria sunnily. "Come on," she says.  
  
Victoria doesn't _come on_. She stays right where she is, hip bumping into her mother's thigh, and does not return the smile. "No thank you," she says politely.  
  
Her mother exhales, and Victoria cringes inwardly. A hand presses between her shoulder blades, and she automatically jerks forward after scooping her little point-and-shoot off of the desk. Not stomping, even if she wants to. Her shoes are new.  
  
The boy — Nathan? — moves ahead, even though Kristine is the one who had been asked to lead. He puts his hands right on the glass of the office door and pushes, leaving blurry impressions of his fingertips behind. Victoria wants to grind her teeth. She doesn't.  
  
The Chase Space is all wide, frosted windows and empty space punctuated occasionally by placards and sealed glass boxes and canvases stretched over the walls. Kristine stops to admire a sculpture of twisting, rusted wires encased in a fiberglass shell, but Nathan heads right for the exit. Victoria looks between the two of them. Sunlight bursts in when Nathan shoves the double doors open, and that's what makes up Victoria's mind. She follows him outside, pretending as though she isn't as fascinated with him as she is irritated, although she has been from the beginning. She wants to dare him to say _What?_ at her aloud.  
  
Nathan has found a seat on one of the benches outside of the entrance, and he is perfectly rigid there, arms folded across his chest, his face blank. Victoria looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something, but suddenly he won't make eye contact again. It's a little disappointing, and although she lingers for a few seconds, waiting and wondering, soon she realizes that nothing is going to happen, and she turns her attention to the flowers.  
  
Her parents won't buy her a real camera. Not yet. Before, it had been _When you're ten_ , and then _When you're eleven_ , and now it's _When you're twelve_ , so Victoria doesn't expect to have any kind of SLR of her own until she's thirteen. It's not for a lack of money. She knows that. It's because that's just the way things are with them. It's because _Because_ is always a final answer when she asks for explanations. She's embarrassed by her point-and-shoot, just like she's embarrassed by her inability to do anything right within her family, and by the Chase Space, a cutesy and unfitting name she's come to loathe. She'd change it if she could, but it's not like she's inheriting it, anyway. She's almost glad she's not; she hates the constant shuttling between Seattle and Arcadia Bay.  
  
She prods through the limited options on her camera and kneels, framing the peonies in the viewfinder. The clusters are twice the width of the palms of her hands, and she wishes she could somehow capture their scale in the shot. It's not very exciting subject matter regardless, but Victoria is too self-conscious and too under prepared to try to take the kinds of photos she _really_ wants to take, the kind of pictures that wind up on the cover of _Vogue_.  
  
_Click_.  
  
She lowers the camera to take a look at the preview, but a pair of hands suddenly reach over her and sweep it out of her grip. Victoria jumps. She nearly falls backwards onto her rear, jerking her head around wildly to look over her shoulder.  
  
Nathan Prescott stands there, her camera in his hands. Anger and embarrassment flood through her, making her want to shriek. She reaches up and shoves her dark hair out of her eyes, planting a hand on the ground to try to get to her feet on the heels she has yet to master. Nathan is looking down at her. She wants to reach up and pluck every tooth out of his mouth and roll them between her palms like pearls.  
  
"Give that _back!_ " she snarls, and she's proud that her voice doesn't waver, because it feels like someone's filled her throat in with cement.  
  
She's not sure why she expects him to respond. He hasn't said a single word to her yet at all. But it's what he says that startles her, not the fact that he talks.  
  
"Let me take your picture," he says. He's cupping her inexpensive little camera with cocked wrists and a finger hovering impatiently over the shutter.  
  
She tells herself that he's mocking her, he's been mocking her the whole time, and her face feels hot, and she reaches out to try to claw her camera away from him. Nathan takes a half step back, and Victoria looks between his face and her camera, paling. "Give it back _right_ now. I don't _care_ that your dad and my mother are making deals. You can't come here like _you_ own _me_ , too." There's an implied threat in it, or at least she thinks there is: _I'll tell._ But it's an empty one. When Victoria thinks about complaining to her mother, thinks of the potential scolding, the cold voice, she blanches. She won't be saying anything. But there's no way that he can know that.  
  
Nathan doesn't argue with her. He just lifts the camera. "Will you let me take your picture?" he says in a voice that's a little frustrated, like he doesn't get why he has to rephrase the question for her.  
  
The red in her vision begins to seep away, and Victoria looks at him, _really_ looks at him, at his stooped shoulders and the purplish shadows beneath his blue eyes. She looks down at her camera in his hands. His knuckles are red, the skin broken and bitten. His wrists are thin.  
  
She thinks his hands are shaking, but when she looks again, she can't really tell.  
  
"Give it back to me when you're done," Victoria says finally, petulantly, and she half expects him to take off running with her camera. Or maybe he'll throw it to the concrete and smash it to pieces. Maybe he'll start scrolling through the photos she has saved on the memory card to laugh at them, picking through her self-portraits and the photos of her favored possessions. But when she backs up against the peonies, expecting something awful to happen, all the does is lift the camera to his eye.  
  
"Tilt your head," he says, and then when she does, "No— the other way." He looks between the viewfinder and then out at her, comparing. He shifts his body very slightly to the right. Victoria stands there. She doesn't know what to do with her hands, so she just crosses her arms. She doesn't know what to do with her face, either, so she just stares into the lens, trying to see right through to the boy behind it.  
  
_Click_.  
  
She drops her arms and steps forward almost immediately when he lowers the camera, holding her hands out for it. Instead of handing it over, Nathan brings up the preview and steps close, his shoulder brushing hers. Victoria recoils, stepping away, not wanting him in her space. He just gives her another dark eyed, impatient look and steps closer again. She realizes that it's because he wants her to look at the photo with him, and so, reluctantly, she does.  
  
"See?" Nathan murmurs softly, cupping a hand over the screen so that they can see it under the sunlight. "Look. Contrast."  
  
His fingers splay over the delineation of her dark hair against the pale pink flowers. He's not wrong. It creates a perfect line of contrast in the shot. She looks tense and wary framed on that little screen, staring right into the lens plaintively. Her hair looks a little wild in it; she reaches up self-consciously to pat it into place, still staring at the photo, at her hard, defensive face. They both look at it in silence for so long that the preview screen times out and goes black. It's only then that Victoria speaks.  
  
"It's," she begins, then stops. "It's a nice photo."  
  
There's a sound— the double doors sweeping open. Sean Prescott appears at the gallery entrance with Kristine at his side. She's clutching his briefcase, holding it to her chest like a textbook as she looks curiously between her brother and Victoria by the flowers. Victoria looks beyond Prescott's shoulder into the gallery. She can see her mother standing there, hands clasped neatly in front of her, looking at Victoria expectantly.  
  
"We're all wrapped up. Come, now," says Prescott, lifting a hand.  
  
Nathan's hands gently press the camera back into hers, and then he snaps to attention like a soldier, trailing to his father's side. They leave for the Bentley that's parked right in the front in the no-parking zone. Victoria stares after them, but Nathan doesn't look back.

   
  


"Don't cause problems with that boy," her mother says to her, later, when she's standing above Victoria's bed. "But don't let him make you into a problem, either. He's trouble. Just try to get along. Please, Vicky. _Behave_ for once. You don't appreciate how important this all is."  
  
"Sean Prescott could _buy_ you," says Victoria, before she gathers enough sense to bite it back. "That's what this is about, right?"  
  
She sleeps with a hand pressed to her cheek. 

  
  
 

"Avedon? Seriously?"  
  
Nathan's voice startles her, and she jerks up with a yelp, knocking her drink over. Sticky bright red punch goes blossoming onto the photo book, which just has Victoria shrieking anew as she plucks it off of the ground to hold it up, staring in horror as juice runs off of it and the pages ripple. The damage has already been done. There's no undoing it. The punch is running into her towel, too, but that's not what matters.  
  
"It's _ruined_ ," she begins, ready to tear into him, before realizing that there's something else that might be ruined, too. "Nathan, my _camera_!" She frantically reaches for it, but it's not in the spot she'd left it. She jerks her head up. Nathan's already cradling it, having grabbed it at some point. She's come to find that his reflexes are sharp— that he always seems to be on the verge of flinching, somehow. Victoria's grateful for that now, but her copy of _Woman in the Mirror_ is still ruined.  
  
"Sorry," says Nathan, but he sounds more annoyed with her anger than he does about being the reason for causing it. He hooks the strap of her camera around his neck and grabs for her towel to try to blot at the pages. Nadja Auermann, locked in an embrace with a skeleton, has already been warped beyond recovery in a damp pink fog. It's one of Victoria's favorite photos. She wants to scream.  
  
"I loved this book, you asshole," she says, trying not to sound as miserable as she feels.  
  
"So what? You can get another, right?" Nathan asks. He turns his attention back to the pool, shaking the towel out over the chlorinated water. It drips red into it, which quickly swirls pink and then dissipates entirely.  
  
She doesn't want to tell him that she had to save up for her own copy, just like she'd had to save up for the camera, an acquisition two months shy of her thirteenth birthday. And if she's thinking of telling him why it matters, well, that disappears the moment he continues talking.  
  
"He didn't capture character," says Nathan, dropping the towel to the ground. "Or _moments_. It's easy to put someone against a backdrop and set up a scene and bide your time until they give you what you want. Fake shit. All of his most famous photos are totally manufactured."  
  
Victoria peels the wet pages apart and smooths her fingertips over stark photos of empty eyes and tense shoulders, the faces of a generation she wishes she had been born into instead, a time when photography had just started to come into its own as _art_. Raw photos. Honest photos. That's what's she's always thought. "Fine," she says, trying to tell herself _There will be another_ , dropping the book with a clatter to the murky blue mosaic framing the pool. She looks at it laying there like a dead drowned thing. "Who's _your_ idol, then?"  
  
Nathan just shrugs, and Victoria studies him. Arcadia Bay is hot and humid in the summer in a way that makes her want to gag on the air, and her skin is sluggish hot even in her shorts and bikini top, but he's wearing a long sleeved shirt that's embroidered with his initials, the cuffs coming over his wrists. She realizes that she doesn't think she's ever seen him in a t-shirt. She watches him tug on his sleeves and say, "I don't know," and then, "Isn't there anyone else you like?"  
  
There is. Nathan might not be the most pleasant person to talk to when it comes to their shared hobby, but Victoria thinks they both want to understand the art as much as possible, and she doesn't think she's ever shared her favorite photographer with him. They're dripping with pool water when they go back inside, tracking it down the halls. Her scalded feet feel a lot better against the cool marble floors, even if she knows she's going to have to follow the path back the same way with a towel before her parents see. Nathan trails her to her bedroom, where Victoria makes him stand just outside the door while she goes inside to tug a book free from a shelf. It's placed right at the end. Easy to reach.  
  
"Here," she says, returning to the door and handing it over. "Mark Jefferson."  
  
Nathan fixes her with a look that lingers for a little too long, and then he looks back down at the coffee table edition of _Sequence_. He thumbs through the portraits, photo after photo in monochrome— editorials, fashion campaigns, street shots. Victoria barely has to look to be able to identify any of the pages. She has been following Mark Jefferson's career since she was a little girl, ever since she was six years old and the Chase Space had hosted a retrospective on works by artists born in Oregon. Mark Jefferson was the most prominent star, the one everyone could name. The one that made Victoria realize that she could be something bigger than Arcadia Bay, if only she would put in the effort, if only she could claw her way _out_.  
  
"Arcadia Bay's finest, right?" Nathan says, and it takes Victoria a moment to realize that he'd spoken aloud and not in her head.  
  
"Who asked you?" she shoots back, trying to reach for the book again.  
  
Nathan pulls it back, parts the pages to a centerfold of a fragile looking young woman posed on the ground, her weight shifted to one hip, surrounded by the charcoal husks of burnt trees. Her white dress is faintly blackened at the edges. _Contrast_ , Victoria thinks.  
  
"There's something kind of empty about all of his shit," Nathan says, after a while of staring.  
  
Resentment rises in her gullet, and she takes the book from him with hands that are far gentler than she had expected them to be. "You really never have anything nice to say about anything," she says, snapping the book shut. She can't censor her mouth, even though she knows that she should. "I think maybe you should go home."  
  
Nathan's face colors, red oozing into the pale, and for a short but immensely satisfying moment, Victoria is glad to see that he seems to be hurt— but within the moment that immediately follows it, she feels sick. Nathan is digging in his pocket when she goes to carefully replace Mark Jefferson's _Sequence_ back on her shelf, and by the time she's returned to the door, he's got his phone to his ear.  
  
"I know. I'm sorry," he says into it, after a pause. "I'll take the bus."

   
  


Sometimes Nathan phones her in the middle of the night, and he never wants to talk about anything at all. She'll lie there in bed, only half awake, her head heavy with exhaustion, and listen mutely as Nathan stammers on about horror films, about _The New Romantics_ , about the grindcore bands he's been getting into lately, about his fifth therapist in as many months.  
  
Once, Victoria puts her phone on silent mode. The next day, she wakes up to four missed calls, and when she sees Nathan at the movies that afternoon, he has a tremor that won't seem to go away, and his lips are bitten raw.  
  
She keeps the volume on high from then on out.

   
  


Sean Prescott has high cheekbones and wide hands and a fuse so short it's always kissing the gunpowder.  
  
He's similar to his son in that last way.

  
  
 

 _hey. happy birthday. fyi 14 sux_  
_Wow Nate just what I didn't want to hear. lol what's up?_  
_howd it go_  
_Im not telling you what girls do on sleepovers so don't even try._  
_i didnt ask_  
_Answer my question_  
_look outside_  
  
Victoria lowers her cell phone and hauls herself up from her bed to take a look out of the window. She can just barely make out, past the gate, the sight of Sean Prescott's Mustang idling there. At his age, Nathan shouldn't be driving, especially not close to midnight, but he does anyway, because even though he's still got more than a year until he can do it legally, who's going to stop him? The cops definitely won't, Victoria knows that much. Nathan does a lot of things he shouldn't, and Victoria lets him, because it's none of her fucking business anyway. Because he's really the only exciting thing she's got in Arcadia Bay. Because whenever she needs to get out of her house, he's always on call, like he's got infinite time to be anywhere but home, just like her.  
  
The Chase estate is too far back on the lot to talk to him through the window, so she texts him again. _This is really fucking 80s teen movie of you_  
  
_i know so just come outside_  
  
Victoria moves very carefully to her bedroom door and slides it open a crack. She stands there with her head tilted slightly, listening closely. She can't hear anything beyond the steady hum of the television downstairs. Her parents won't notice. They don't notice a lot of things.  
  
That's how, ten minutes later, Victoria is climbing into the passenger seat with nothing more than her phone and a fistful of bills. She's hardly managed to buckle up by the time Nathan is taking off like a shot, his hands rolling against the steering wheel. He drives fast and reckless in a way that makes Victoria completely believe the fatality statistics for teenagers in collisions, sweeping past the streetlights and onto one of Arcadia Bay's many unmarked roads, the headlights catching reflections of wide, frightened eyes lurking in the treeline. She rolls the window down and is blasted by cool air, and her heart swells greedily. Sometimes, she half hopes she'll be caught when she's out with Nathan like this.  
  
"Where are we going?" she asks.  
  
"Don't worry about it," Nathan says. She looks at him, and it's hard to see anything in his face against the soft glow of the dashboard lights, but she can tell one thing: his pupils are blown out so wide that the blue's nearly black.  
  
She stiffens in her seat and lets loose a searing laugh that conceals the tension that has yanked every one of her muscles in a different direction. "Jesus, Nathan," she says, and she turned fourteen yesterday, but she really doesn't feel grown up enough for any of this, and she doesn't know if she ever will be. She wants to crawl back into her bed and sleep off all of the junk food she's eaten over the past twenty four hours. She wants to sprawl out with her laptop and read reviews for the winter animation season. But this is Nathan, and he passes his time differently, and when she's with him, she plays by his rules.  
  
There's something freeing about that. Nathan's taught her how to smoke a cigarette and how to shoot in manual and what to do if a cop catches her shoplifting or with alcohol in her backpack and where that one spot in the graveyard is where the light catches the headstones perfectly, just _perfectly_ , and he's done all of those things from the lap of luxury, spat out the silver spoon in his mouth like she's tried so hard to do, even more determined than she is to rip off the cloak. Nathan is a zero to one hundred sort of person.  
  
She still feels like she doesn't know him at all.  
  
He pulls up to a house that she doesn't recognize. There's loud music piercing the night air, and before Nathan's even fully shut the engine off, a tall, wide shouldered boy has ambled up the driveway. Victoria can't place an age on him. His face is youthful, but his voice isn't, a heavy, lazy bass.  
  
"Hey," he says, clapping a hand on the roof of the Mustang and leaning in to peer at Victoria through the window. "Happy birthday."  
  
"Thank you," she says, uncertain of this congratulations from a boy she doesn't know, unable to suppress the urge to recoil from the smell of alcohol on his breath.  
  
Nathan leans in so close that his chin bumps her shoulder. Victoria twitches, feeling trapped on both sides. "Hey, Hayden," he says, and he's grinning as he shuts off the car.  
  
"So this is Victoria Chase," says the boy, reaching out for a fist bump that Victoria doesn't meet in the middle. "We were all wondering when we'd get to meet you. We all thought you basically didn't exist."  
  
"What?" Victoria looks back at Nathan over her shoulder. Her cheek collides with his, and she bats at him. Nathan laughs and sits back to climb out of the car. She notes that he hadn't had to undo his seat belt, because he hadn't fastened it in the first place. Beside her, Hayden is slipping an arm through the crack in the window and manually unlocking the door. He opens it and holds it out for her like a chauffeur. Victoria jams her cell phone and her money in her pocket and climbs out.  
  
She sees that there's a not insignificant number of teenagers crowding the lawn. Victoria recognizes some faces, and some names surface hazily for her, but she doesn't really know any of them. They're the youth of Arcadia Bay, like her, but she's always attended the girls-only academy in the next town over, a forty five minute drive both ways every single weekday for as long as she can remember. Her education and social life have been marked by uniform skirts and friendships maintained by telephone calls with girls she rarely sees outside of school. Once, Nathan had seen her in her school uniform. He'd laughed so hard she thought he was going to pass out.  
  
Nathan's different from these Arcadia Bay kids. Different like her. Their parents broker business deals together. They're members of the county's Rotary Club. They compare yachts and beachfront properties and say _Why don't you both go outside and play_ when they're lounging around on the Prescott manor sun deck to both Nathan and Victoria as though they're still children. As if they were ever children together. Sometimes Victoria wonders whose parents are more clueless: hers, or Nathan's.  
  
But he's her only friend in the Bay, and maybe it's more circumstantial than anything else, but most of the time, she doesn't mind being on his collision course.  
  
"So you all go to Arcadia Bay High," Victoria says slowly, looking between Hayden and the group of laughing teenagers nodding along to the music and sprawling on the grass. She sees sparks fly from the ground several feet away, followed by a yelp and a puff of smoke. Her remark about the school is pretty unnecessary; there's only one high school in Arcadia Bay, and Blackwell Academy, with its specialized curriculum and entry requirements — seniors only, somewhere between high school and college — doesn't quite count.  
  
"You bet," says Hayden. He's standing a little bit too close. He sways when he walks, and Victoria doesn't know if he's just that tipsy or if he's trying to affect swagger. "Me, it's only 'til I get my bad self into Blackwell."  
  
"That should be easy if you're friends with Nathan," Victoria says.  
  
"Speak of the devil," Nathan interjects, wedging himself between the two of them, all nervous energy and live wires. "Yeah. Can't wait. It's a real fuckin' shame you won't come, Vic."  
  
Victoria presses her lips into a thin line. This is a conversation she has had before— with Nathan, with her mother, with her friends. She is not going to streamline herself into a filter school. Not when she can just close out her studies and move directly to one of the post-secondary institutions she has her eye on— the American Academy of Art, preferably. Gil Elvgren and Kanye West studied there. More importantly, Mark Jefferson studied there.  
  
Blackwell Academy just means yet another year confined within Arcadia Bay. It means seeing all the same faces every single day. It means boarding in the Prescott dorms. Regimented, structured days. It's everything Victoria _doesn't_ want, no matter how much of it the Prescotts own.  
  
"I'm _so_ sure I'll be missing out on a bunch," she says as airily as possible. Nathan plants a hand above her shoulder blades and gives her a little shove towards a group of girls congregated by the pile of sparklers. They all look cozy in plush hoodies and torn jeans and scuffed sneakers. Victoria feels overdressed in her cardigan and boots. These girls look small town and unaffected and an ugly part of her wishes she could be, too.  
  
The girls look up at her, and they give her cautious but easy smiles. One of them, a blonde girl with bangs so blunt that Victoria thinks, meanly, that she must have cut them herself, looks to Nathan, as if for his approval. Nathan looks back at her like he has no idea what she wants and scoops a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He lights one as his cell phone goes off. He answers it as he wanders away. Victoria watches him go helplessly.  
  
"So Nathan totally ditched us to go and bring you here, huh?" asks the blonde girl, catching her attention again. Her eyes are a little red and watery. "I'm Taylor." She holds up her hand, and Victoria reaches out to shake it before realizing that she's being offered the joint pinched between the girl's fingers. Taylor laughs at her awkwardness. Victoria prickles, but she won't be laughed at, only laughed with, so she forces a giggle, as if she meant to do it on purpose. It doesn't quite work; Taylor is still looking at her with a raised eyebrow, like she wants to say _Seriously?_  
  
Victoria's never smoked anything beyond cigarettes before, even if she's watched Nathan too many times to count with the palm sized glass pipe he's always rolling between his hands like it's some kind of stress toy. Sometimes he'd offered it to her, but she'd never felt like she had anything to prove to him, so she'd shrugged off every offer. But right now, surrounded by these carefree kids all staring at her like she's a rare zoo animal finally put on exhibit — _Look, it's the Chase Space space case_ — she feels cornered.  
  
Bitterly, Victoria reminds herself that she's always got something to prove to someone. That's how the game of life is played. These girls have no idea that she's had all of the rules memorized since birth. She snatches the joint up. "I'm Victoria," she says icily, and she pulls it up to her lips. The tip is a little wet, which makes her cringe, but she sucks in, and she doesn't cough.  
  
Twenty minutes later, she's huddled in next to Taylor, who doesn't seem to be all that bad through the thick static of smoke in her head. Soon, she's looking at Victoria with wide, adoring eyes, plucking at her sweater with envious fingers, tipping her head onto her shoulder like they've been friends for years, curling around her little finger like a cat in heat. Victoria, who typically hates being touched, finds that she doesn't even mind it, now. The weed's making her feel sleepy and electric all at once, rolling down her spine and through her shoulders to the tips of her fingers. She laughs with the girls and helps them set off more sparklers, and when Hayden returns to try to engage her in conversation, she talks freely, secretly pleased with his attention.  
  
She could own all of them, she realizes. It'd be easy.  
  
It's been an hour, or maybe two — she's not sure; it's so hard to tell how much time has passed — when she realizes that she hasn't seen Nathan in a while. Taylor's head is on her lap as she relates a story about her attempts to join the choir at Arcadia Bay High when Victoria gently eases her away and excuses herself. Taylor pouts — it's kind of adorable — and Victoria climbs to her feet, feeling like she's floating. She's unsteady, every motion feeling so much bigger than it really is.  
  
"Hey," greets some meaty looking jock who's been eyeballing her for a while, and Victoria doesn't even bother to disguise her disgust as she elbows past him. She's fourteen. She's not here to do whatever stupid thing is obviously going through his head. There will be a time when she'll have to wonder why thinking about boys makes her uncomfortable rather than excited, but it won't be tonight, and it won't be with some stranger. When she moves beyond him, she's hit by the music pulsing from inside the house. The lights are on, even though it seems like most of the party is congregated out on the lawn. She hasn't seen Nathan anywhere out here, though, so she decides to invite herself inside.  
  
Transitioning from the cool, dark outdoors to the warm, bright interior makes her dizzy. She steps past the living room and picks her way over a mess of coats and shoes in the hallway. There's a door that's slightly open, a sliver of light at the frame. She can just barely make out the shape of a shoulder through it. She impulsively shoves it open.  
  
Nathan's there, hunched over the sink. Somehow, she's not surprised to see him in here all by himself. Nathan has this way of seeming alone even when he's in a room full of people. Victoria stays where she is, clutching at the door frame, looking into the mirror as she waits for him to notice her. His eyes meet hers through the glass.  
  
He looks tired and uneasy, but it's not that that gives him away. It's his posture and the way his nostrils are flaring and the way his breaths come short and timed perfectly.  
  
Victoria suddenly feels very sober. "Do you want to go home," she mumbles quietly.  
  
Nathan's eyes flicker closed. He tilts his head to the right, then the left. His neck cracks. "What did your parents get you?" he asks out of nowhere.  
  
"What?" Victoria's fingers close on the door frame.  
  
"For your birthday," Nathan says patiently.  
  
She reaches through the fog in her head for the answer. "There's a show this month," she says finally, "at the Bean Hip Café."  
  
Nathan's mouth twitches, and his lips part, and he huffs out something like a laugh. "Mark Jefferson's exhibit, right?"  
  
She's not surprised that he knows of it, but she doesn't know how to react, or where he's going with it, and suddenly she feels defensive of her favorite photographer and of the exhibit she's been aching to go and see. The tickets had been a surprisingly thoughtful gift from her parents, although a bitter, pessimistic part of Victoria suspects that they are VIP passes granted to the Chase Space as a courtesy. A fortunate coincidence. "He's going to be there on—"  
  
"—on the last day," finishes Nathan. "Meet and greet."  
  
"Yeah," says Victoria, who already knows exactly which book she's going to ask him to sign, and what she's going to say to him. "And I've been looking forward to it for basically my _whole life_ , so, like, whatever you were going to say, _don't_." Her hackles are raised, ready to go on the offensive if Nathan has even one negative word to say about it, but her caution turns out to be unnecessary.  
  
"Good thing mine are refundable," says Nathan blankly, and then he pushes off and away from the sink and runs his hands through his hair. His collar is askew. His fingertips are twitching. Victoria takes a step away from him without thinking of it, too confused to do anything else but respond instinctively. But if he's hurt, it doesn't show.  
  
"Wait," she says, finally, "did you—"  
  
"I think I want to go home," says Nathan, and he paws at himself for the car keys. And he says it again in the Mustang, several times, _I want to go home_ , but in the end they park at the Chase estate, and she winds up sneaking him into her room, where he falls asleep on her floor.

  
  
 

The end of November brings frigid weather to Arcadia Bay, but all Victoria can think about is meeting Mark Jefferson between school and get-togethers (they feel more like dates, really) with Taylor Christensen, whom she's sure is at least a little bit in love with her, not that she really minds. Spending time with Taylor is much more entertaining than going on the actual dates her mother sets her up on, which she has decided to stop humoring. Besides— there's only one person Victoria is fixated on. The first of December is circled on the dry erase board in her room and plugged in as a reminder on her phone, reinforcing the date that's already running on a constant marquee in her head.  
  
But the cooling weather brings a change in Nathan, too, and maybe it's because she doesn't see him every single day like Taylor and Hayden and the rest of her new friends that she's able to notice it. The circles under his eyes are getting darker. On one morning, Victoria finds a newspaper that her father, or maybe the housekeeper, has left out on the kitchen table. The title is _BLACKWELL ACADEMY OFFERS LUCRATIVE TEACHING CONTRACT VIA PRESCOTT FOUNDATION TO FAMED PHOTOGRAPHER MARK JEFFERSON_. Nathan has never mentioned this to her. She wonders if he knew. She wonders why she cares.  
  
Nathan tells her that he's been suspended from school— two weeks, for throwing a punch at a teacher. "But I'll still take you to the café," he reassures her over the phone, his voice watery. There's a long stretch of silence. Victoria has learned that she usually never knows what to say to him, but that tends to be the right tactic with him. "My dad's going to kill me," he says finally, quietly.  
  
She believes it. She can smell it on him through the phone like he's leaking blood into the water. It's really just a matter of when.

  
  
 

"Are you going to ask him why he turned the contract down?" Nathan asks her. His tone is faintly teasing. At least she thinks it is.  
  
They're parked outside of the Bean Hip Café watching the snow come down, or what passes for it— it's turning to slush the moment it hits the ground. Victoria doesn't think she's ever seen a _real_ snowfall in Arcadia Bay, but even the sleet is making her uneasy. The reddish light coming through the windows isn't doing her nerves any favors, either. She's steps away from meeting her idol. She has Mark Jefferson's _Re-Collection_ in her lap, her camera around her neck, and her hopes up ridiculously, pathetically high. She's never felt more insecure. It's turned her hard, harder than usual, and when she turns to shoot Nathan a glare, she can't filter her mouth.  
  
"No, I'm not," she says acidly, and she knows that she's only allowed to talk to him like this because he'd started it to begin with. "Who gives a shit?"  
  
"But you'd come to Blackwell if he'd agreed to teach there," Nathan says just as bluntly. He leans in, his blue eyes wide, imploring. Challenging her, in a way. "You fuckin' would. Don't deny it."  
  
She doesn't like the way Nathan's been lately, on edge and almost manic. Being suspended seems to have untethered his already limited sense of patience. He's twitching more. The other day, Victoria uncovered orange plastic bottles in his room. She's not sure if the twitching is from taking the drugs or because he's _not_ taking them. It's none of her business, but she thinks about it all the time, anyway.  
  
"So what?" Victoria snaps. Maybe she'd thought about it. Maybe she'd considered putting her plans aside for the brief few days she'd thought Mark Jefferson might come back to Arcadia Bay to teach at Blackwell Academy. It's not as though she'd _really_ believed it— for the past handful of years Jefferson has taught at other schools, but they've been prestigious universities in huge cities, not a small, specialized academy in an even smaller town, much less the one he'd grown up in and moved on from. But maybe she'd still entertained the notion of being able to learn from one of the greats, to sit in on his lectures and absorb his knowledge and maybe — just maybe — turn her idol into a mentor.  
  
She's hardly dared to let herself think about that last part. She doesn't think about what it would be like to have one-on-one time with Mark Jefferson. To have his input, his guidance, his advice. She doesn't think about it, because she doesn't want to hurt herself with something that might never happen.  
  
It's not going to happen. She'd hurt herself anyway.  
  
But so what? What was wrong with wanting that? _Nothing_ , she tells herself. _Nothing's wrong with that._ But Nathan makes her feel like there might be, and she doesn't want to find where the end of that thread leads. She reaches for the door and shoves it open. Nathan stays right where he is. "I'll be right out here," he says.  
  
That startles her. "You're not coming in?" she asks, turning to look at him. She can already feel the slush seeping through her sheepskin boots.  
  
"No," says Nathan, and he doesn't elaborate.  
  
"Fine," Victoria breathes, because her head's too scattered to think of anything but how nervous she is. She'd had a couple of hits off of Nathan's pipe about an hour ago, but it's done nothing to relax her. She reaches up and touches her hair. Suddenly, the loose bun feels ridiculous, like maybe she's putting too much effort in, and she tugs it free. She heads for the door before she can change her mind again.  
  
She's purposely held off coming to the café until this day, even though the exhibit has already been open for a month, which has just worked her anticipation and her anxiety into a frothy mess. But there's something lush about the atmosphere that makes her feel at ease. There are photos she's familiar with blown up to scale proportion covering every wall, each one a stunning masterwork in black and white. Victoria feels faintly detached from her own body as she brushes past patrons in Burberry coats and bespoke suits. There's a congregation of people gathered in the back and a spotlight on the modest stage. She breaks through the crowd just in time to hear Mark Jefferson say, "and what a pleasure it is to be back in Arcadia Bay."  
  
He's different in person, but she's not sure what she was expecting. He's taller, his shoulders a little broader. He looks just as young for his age as they say, smiling easy and confident even in front of a rapt, expectant crowd. He's handsome in a way that makes her stomach clench up and her knees knock together, and it's _him_. It's him. Victoria realizes that this is the first time he's ever seemed like a real person to her, the first time he's ever been anything more than a concept, and everything she planned on saying to him drains right out of her mind. She stands there, lightheaded, as he finishes his speech and invites the crowd to join the line for autographs— after which, he says, he will be glad to mingle.  
  
She stands there, dazed, before realizing that she needs to find a place in line. She turns to try to nab the first or second spot when she feels a hand on her shoulder.  
  
Victoria jerks her head up. Sean Prescott looks down at her with a slow smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes. "Vicky," he says. "What a pleasure it is to see you here. How are you? Are your parents here, as well?"  
  
His hand is so heavy on her shoulder that, combined with her anxiousness, Victoria fears her knees might buckle. But she's a _Chase_ , she reminds herself. More than that, she's _Victoria_ Chase, so she pulls herself together, even though her heart's beating so hard she's getting a headache. She eases her shoulder back from under Prescott's grip and manages to do it in a manner so casual that it just seems like coincidence.  
  
"No, they're not," she says as sweetly as she can. She wonders, suddenly, if Prescott knows that Nathan is the one that drove her here. If he's seen his son in the borrowed Mustang in the lot. If he doesn't know, well— she can't give anything away. She straightens. "I came here on my own," she adds. "Mark Jefferson's my biggest inspiration." Her voice doesn't quiver. Good.  
  
Prescott's looking at her like he's trying to stare right through her. After a pause, he says, "It's good to aspire to something. If only Nathan had your _focus_."  
  
Victoria lowers her gaze and stares at her wet-mottled boots. She wonders what Prescott means by _focus_. She wonders about the teaching contract. She wonders why Nathan had the faintest shadow of a bruise on his cheekbone even before he was suspended for fighting.  
  
There's a lot of things she wonders about but doesn't want to know.  
  
"Nathan's very talented," she says finally, as blandly as she can. "A lot more talented than me." That part is honest, and something she is forced to admit freely. Nathan doesn't seem to give anything resembling a real fuck about photography, and that makes all the difference in his art. It makes her so sick with envy that she could puke just thinking about it, but it's hard to hold it against the one person she's able to call a friend, however uncertainly.  
  
"He _is_ talented," agrees Prescott, and Victoria thinks that she ought to hear fatherly pride in his voice, but she doesn't detect any. "But talent is nothing without drive." Before Victoria can come up with something to say in response, he's reaching out to push at her shoulder, smiling in what she assumes he thinks is an approximation of friendly. "I won't hold you. I can see that you're looking forward to this. The Prescott Foundation is pleased to have brought Mark Jefferson back briefly, even if it isn't at Blackwell."  
  
He's walking away before things have started to click into place in her head, but then she's not thinking about any of that at all, save for a brief moment of rolling her eyes at the indulgent and unnecessary Prescott Foundation namedrop. Victoria turns her attention back to the line. While she's been talking to Sean Prescott, it's swelled to several dozen people. She takes her place at the end of it. It's more than an hour later that she gets her turn.  
  
Up close, she can see every stitch in Mark Jefferson's fitted suit and smell his woodsy cologne. He stands up from the table to greet her, and although she's had a growth spurt recently, he still dwarfs her. He catches her gaze and holds it, and in that moment, everything, _everything_ is fine, and she's floating somewhere high above the clouds; it's a dozen times better than Nathan's weed or Taylor's stolen liquor. She wants to take her camera from around her neck and press close to him and scroll through the shots saved on her memory card and say _See? See? What do you think?_  
  
"How are you?" Jefferson asks, and the whole thing shatters. It sounds perfunctory. There's none of the charisma with which he'd delivered his speech. He's looking past her shoulder, onto the rest of the line, as if counting how many are left.  
  
"Fine," Victoria hears herself say. She stands there unmoving. A beat, and then, "How are you?"  
  
"I'm doing great," Jefferson says in that same measured tone.  
  
Victoria puts a smile on, but there's a knot in her throat, and her eyes are watering, and she realizes she's been holding her breath. Suddenly she feels painfully young and achingly outmatched, and she wonders why she came here at all. She wonders what she was hoping for. She can't believe she was stupid enough to entertain it for even a second. She says, "You're an inspiration." In her head, it had sounded a lot more confident and a lot less like a stupid, childish platitude.  
  
"Thank you," he says simply, but he's not really looking at her. He's holding his hand out for the book she's forgotten she was carrying. She holds fast to it, desperate for the moment to mean something. Desperate for it to be real.  
  
"I mean it," she says. "When I saw your work in _Vogue Italia_ , it was— it was what made me want to—"  
  
"What's your name?" he interjects. His hand is poised with a pen at the ready. Victoria doesn't try to finish her sentence. She holds _Re-Collection_ out to him with shaky fingers.  
  
"Victoria," she whispers.  
  
On the inside cover of the book is a studio shot of a young woman with pale blonde hair and wide hazel eyes. Victoria has the description memorized. She knows that the girl in the photo had been one of Jefferson's favorite muses in the nineties, and that they had collaborated on a handful of award winning editorials. She remembers reading a rumor, once, about how it was thought in the industry that Jefferson had made easy work of sleeping with his models. She's thinking about that rumor as she watches him scrawl his signature right over the photo, streaking it across the girl's throat.  
  
Victoria feels so small.

   
  


When she climbs back into the car, Nathan's red eyed and the cabin smells like ash, and she pretends she doesn't notice as he says, "How was it?"  
  
She shows him her teeth. "It was _amazing_ ," she lies. "You should have come in."  
  
Nathan stares at her, his fingers hitting out patterns against the dashboard, his shoulders twitching. They drive on in silence, the scent of pine blowing through the vents. She wishes he would say something, but in the end, he doesn't call her out on it, just lets her head disappear beneath the undertow of her lie.  
  
That's worse, somehow.


	2. reticulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only comment I have for this chapter is to please heed the animal death warning in the tags; it applies near the end.

"I think," says Victoria, her mouth very, very dry, "I want to submit to the gallery."  
  
Her mother takes a moment to respond. She doesn't turn to fully acknowledge that she's been spoken to, but her gaze flicks to the side. Victoria stares at her profile, at the sloped nose and pursed lips she's inherited from her. "Which gallery?"  
  
"Ours."  
  
Victoria's hands are clutching at the folder so hard that she thinks she's going to cut her own circulation off, make her fingers go numb and purple and dead. She feels like someone's struck nails through the tops of her feet and right down into the linoleum. Her eyes feel as dry as her tongue, but she's too afraid to even blink now, staring at her mother, who just turns her head a fraction and looks at her blankly.  
  
"Victoria?" her mother prompts after the silence goes on for far too long. She folds her slender arms over her chest, her keys dangling from one hand, already halfway out the door. Victoria thinks she may have picked a bad time, but there never seems to be a good time when it comes to her mother.  
  
Her stomach lurches, but she lifts the folder robotically and lets it splay open in her palms. Colorful photos spill out and all over the tiles. She reddens and kneels to scoop them up, and from down here at her mother's heels, it's a lot easier to coax her mouth into speaking. "The Chase Space's next exhibit is a focus on young creators," she begins, speaking in a rush at the floor.  
  
"No, it's not," says her mother down at her.  
  
"The—" Victoria stammers, "the one after _Highlights_. I meant the one after the next one."  
  
"That's right," her mother acknowledges, and offers no more.  
  
Victoria stacks the photos back up like a deck of cards, tapping the corners so that they square up. There's not a single self-portrait in any of them, although the photos she's taken of herself are really some of her best work (she tells herself that it's not arrogant to think that way, that the self-portrait has been a facet of art since antiquity). These photos aren't anything like what she wishes she could shoot, but they're _good_ ; they're better than any of her prior work. She's overly harsh on herself even at the best of times, but with these photos, even though they are all flawed in a hundred different ways, she can't find too much to hate.  
  
She feels like maybe she's _accomplished_ something with this small collection, shots of Arcadia Bay that are honest and real. The loan shops with cracked windows and neon signs cemented in dust, fishermen as they unmoor their boats at four-thirty in the morning, the graffiti that mars the lighthouse in cryptic patterns, sunlight catching on Taylor's hair as she leans into Hayden, both of them beaming into the camera over a fire pit, the stray cats that dart in and out of the alleyway behind the tourist trap near the beach, trains tearing down the tracks by the scrapyard, the old and beat-up tan truck she's always seeing ripping down the roads— the only vehicle in the Bay that moves faster than Nathan's new shiny red pickup.  
  
Arcadia Bay through the eyes of its youth. Pictures that show what it's like to live here. Pictures that could belong in the Chase Space, if only she could have a shot at it. She draws out a favorite photo — Nathan's red knuckles framed against the deep gouges in one of the tables at the Two Whales Diner — and hands it over.  
  
"I've been putting this series together over the past year," she says.  
  
Her mother takes the photo, and she looks at it, but she's not really _looking._ She lowers it and holds it back out for Victoria to take, shaking it slightly when she doesn't reach out for it fast enough. "Well, you know how it goes, Vicky," says her mother mildly, and she's flipping her keys up into her hand, and her voice floats back over her shoulder as she disappears into the garage. "You know the submission procedures."  
  
Victoria watches her go, the photo caught between her fingers, in the soft spots.

   
  


The letterhead has her mother's name and _Proprietor, Chase Space, Seattle, WA_ emblazoned on it. The signature at the bottom is a photocopy, and the bulk of the letter is a cut-and-paste, very formal, very polite, _Thank you for your time and for your interest_.  
  
It's addressed to _Ms. Chase_.  
  
She's alone in her room when she reads it, but the humiliation _stings_ , running hot through her head and down her arms and numbing her out, making her feel like no one and nothing, and maybe that's it right there. Maybe she'll never get to know what it feels like to _be_ something, and that's the most terrifying thing in the world, thinking that the long life ahead of her sixteen years is going to be wasted, that she's going to look back on it and know that she never even got to hold it, not even for a single fucking second.  
  
Victoria can't remember the last time she cried, but it doesn't matter, because the timer's just been reset to zero anyway. Later, she presses the rejection letter into a folder and buries it deep, deep in the back of her closet and tells herself that she won't need to ever pull it out again. Her mother doesn't mention it that night, or the night after. Her mother doesn't mention it at all.

   
  


Victoria isn't sure at which point she stopped feeling like a fringe friend to Nathan's group, but at some point, she did, and everyone seems to have accepted the transition long before she'd ever even had a chance to grow used to it. Maybe that's because they all refer to her and Nathan in one breath, _NathanandVictoria_ , and she can't really blame them, not when they always show up to the same parties at the same time, not when they can hold entire conversations with a look, not when they speak their own language of in-jokes and status.  
  
So she becomes a friend that they all count among their own, even though she doesn't attend school with any of them, which is a little bit weird, but it's what she'd intended, in a way. Two years ago on that drunken night on Hayden's front lawn, she'd thought to herself that it would be easy to own all of them, and she'd been right. Nathan seems to look at her in a newer, more reverent way for it, like he admires her for being able to wrap all of his friends around her fingers like the jewelry she receives from her father on every birthday and holiday and leaves to collect dust on her dresser.  
  
When Hayden first mentions _Nathan's meltdowns_ , she doesn't believe him. Not entirely. She's seen Nathan at low points. She's sat by him while he's tried to put words to the sort of pressure that's always crowding out every single thought in his head. She's sneaked him into her room on rough nights, nights when all he can say is _I can't go back home_ over and over. She's held his hand under the table during dinners at the Prescott manor while he gripped back so hard that her fingers started cramping. She's pissed off at Hayden at first for putting it in such a stupid, callous way, because _meltdowns_ seems so infantile and demeaning and it's not true to what she's seen, anyway. Nathan has anger — lots of anger — but not _rage_ , not the sort of rage that the word _meltdown_ brings to mind, nuclear and destructive. She's sure of that.  
  
She's his best friend. She would know.  
  
"He just," says Hayden delicately, "he freaks out sometimes." His thumb is tracing down her hip, right over the belt that hugs her skirt to her body. He's so physically flirtatious that Victoria barely notices it any more, too worn to recoil from it. She does _now_ , though, because she's annoyed.  
  
She stands up from the couch. "You're calling him a _freak_? Aren't you, like, his friend?"  
  
"You'll see what I mean," says Hayden, unfazed. "Eventually."  
  
"Bullshit," she responds. "Go choke on a dick."  
  
But she can't get it out of her head, replaying what Hayden has told her over and over, and she sees exactly what she means when it happens one night out of nowhere. She hates that Hayden hasn't lied to her. Hates that he'd told the truth, and not even all of it. It happens when her mother drops her off by the Prescott home one night to see Nathan. He hasn't been responding to her texts for the past few hours, but she figures that they're still on for 8:00 PM on the nose. They're going to see a hip-hop show she's been looking forward to ages, an act from California that's been gaining a lot of buzz lately in indie music reviews. Victoria, who isn't ashamed of the fact that she always wants to be the one to say _I was into this before anyone else was_ , is ready to get going.  
  
When Nathan answers the door, however, he says, "What the fuck are you doing here?"  
  
Victoria narrows her eyes. "Excuse you," she says. "We're supposed to hit up a show in an hour, in case you've forgotten." She'd spent a good three hours picking out her outfit and perfecting her look. It's not very adventurous or different from her usual neat and tidy appearance, but she thinks she looks pretty good; there's black lace trimming the collar on her shirt, and it provides a delicate contrast against her pale skin.  
  
"Now's not," Nathan starts, and Victoria takes a better look at him. "Not a good time." He's wedged halfway into the door, and he's throwing fearful looks over his shoulder. The annoyance fades out of Victoria, and weakness — concern — takes its place.  
  
"What's going on?" she says, forcing herself to keep her voice down.  
  
A voice that Victoria knows very well calls out from deep within the house, loud, sharp. "Nathan!"  
  
Nathan gives her a wild look, and Victoria makes up her mind in that split second. She grabs Nathan by the arm and yanks him out from the door. Nathan attempts to protest and pull back, but his struggle doesn't last. She holds her hand out for his truck keys and gets into the driver's seat. Her limited knowledge of how to drive all comes from Nathan, which doesn't make her any good at it, but she knows enough to be able to pull out and get going. She doesn't know where to go — she can't take him back to her home, and he certainly doesn't seem to want to see the show now — so she drives for the first point she sees on the horizon: the lighthouse.  
  
When they get out of the truck, Nathan sucks in air like he'd been holding his breath the entire drive there, and then he begins to sob.  
  
_Nathan's meltdowns._ There's no other way to put it. He ricochets from panic to sullen calm and then back again, so erratic and violent that Victoria is reminded of the few times she's seen him on coke. He's not even saying anything, but his aura is cacophonous. Maybe she'd feel better if it _were_ drugs, but it's not. She sits with him at one of the old picnic benches with her back straight and her hands on her lap and wishes she knew what to say, what to ask, what to do. She offers him cigarettes and returns to the truck to find the green where he's stashed it in the usual spot. She sits next to him as she packs the bowl, her thigh pressed to his. Eventually his sobs slow and get quieter and stop, and he slumps to the side, laying his weight into her body. When he's this close, it's easy to see that there's a reddish mark on his face that's going to become a bruise soon. Resentment and hate curdle thick in the pit of her stomach. Her helplessness makes her want to put her hands around her own throat and squeeze.   
  
Is this really her problem? Does she have a choice?  
  
"Nathan?" She's staring into his face as she lights the pipe for him while he hits it. His gaze meets hers over her cupped hand. Holds it.  
  
He breathes smoke out through his mouth and says, "I don't want to talk about it." His breath is warm on her fingers.

   
  


Victoria is halfway out of her school uniform when she gets a FaceTime request from Taylor. She picks it up as she's wrestling her sweater vest up and off of her head, exposing her plain black bra to the camera. Although she can't see anything beyond the garment, she hears Taylor yelp through the little speaker.  
  
"Oh!" she says. "Is this a bad time?"  
  
Pulling the sweater free, Victoria runs a hand through her hair — it's getting long enough that it's starting to feel unmanageable — and rolls her eyes down at the screen. "No, bitch, what? Have you never seen a pair of tits before? I mean, I guess not, all things considered."  
  
" _Hey_ ," says Taylor, looking hurt on the tiny screen. Victoria sees her cross her arms over her chest. She laughs at the sight of it, unable to resist.  
  
"I'm joking," says Victoria once she's stopped snorting, although she's secretly thinking to herself, not for the first time, that she's glad that her own breasts are at least a little bit bigger than Taylor's A cups. She's nice enough not to say anything (most of the time) about the push-up bras Taylor is always wearing ( _What the hell have you even got to push up?_ is the question she always has to bite back).  
  
"Yeah," says Taylor with an uneasy smile, reaching up to push her bangs out of her eyes with her knuckles. She's looking into the screen as Victoria throws her sweater to the carpet and digs through her closet for a shirt to put on. "So... I have a query."  
  
" _Query_. That's a nice new bit of vocabulary for you. Did you learn that in class today?" She fingers a soft linen shirt with a beaded collar and pops the buttons open to slip it on.  
  
To her credit, Taylor slips past that obvious barb without so much as a blink. What she says next takes Victoria by surprise, a little. "Blackwell's hosting an open house," Taylor says to her, her eyes wide and innocuous, and Victoria already knows what she wants to say before she follows up and says it: "They do it once a year, for prospective students... I _know_ you're not into it, but won't you come? Just to keep me company? Super pretty please?"  
  
Victoria lines the buttons up with the buttonholes and begins to fasten her shirt, staring hard into her phone. She has not moved from her position on attending Blackwell Academy, despite the fact that nearly every single one of the friends she mutually shares with Nathan all intend to go. "Why? Go with Hayden or— what was her name? That one bitch with the bad eyebrows. Juliet. Go with her."  
  
"Like I want to hang out with _her_ ," says Taylor, leaning in closer to the screen. "I mean, there's free food... and no one's asking you to sign up. And my mom said I could have her car that day, so after we can just go to the beach, or something. _And_ drinks will be on me."  
  
It's hard to think of a single thing she would like to do less than spend half a day touring the grounds of a school she has no desire to attend, listening as its biased faculty tout the various benefits of finger painting shoulder to shoulder with every talentless teenager in Arcadia Bay, but the fact that Taylor has access to both a car and liquor is just too tempting to resist.  
  
"It'll be fun..." Taylor begins, hopefully, and the moment hangs heavy.  
  
" _N'importe quoi,_ " Victoria sighs. "Whatever. I'll go. When is it?"

   
  


The Blackwell Academy open house event is startlingly packed. There appear to be people from all over Oregon here, and maybe beyond, not just from Arcadia Bay. Victoria has to remind herself that Blackwell is a school whose reputation precedes it— that it's considered to be one of the finest in the world at what it does, and that not everyone in the world sees it as a hack school for teenagers too afraid to fully commit to college the way she does. People are swarming the grounds— parents and children, groups of teenagers touring from other schools, alumni, staff, current students. _Everyone wants to get into Blackwell. Everyone wants to feel like they have what it takes,_ Victoria thinks to herself. There are tents set up in front of the main administrative building, and each one is run by a student or a teacher eagerly handing out flyers and banners and information. Taylor's arms are locked tightly around one of hers, and she drags her along, past signs like _Blackwell Academy Otters_ and _Go Bigfoots!_ and _Enter the Vortex Club._  
  
That last one gives her pause. There's a huge poster at the front of the booth with a swirling spiral in bloody red ink. There's not much else. Behind the table are a pair of hatefully beautiful seniors, who smile at her like cool marble statues. One of them lifts a finger as if to beckon her over. Victoria wants to linger, but Taylor tugs her onward.  
  
"It's super packed, huh?" Taylor says, forced to raise her voice. She sounds just as surprised as Victoria feels. "This sucks. I know they have a limited intake every year... I never thought I'd have to compete for it."  
  
_C'est la vie_ , Victoria wants to tell her, because she knows that everything in life is some sort of contest, and she can't believe that Taylor still has yet to clue in. "Good luck," she says instead, detachedly. She's not personally invested in any of this. Why should she be?  
  
Taylor consults a map of the school grounds repeatedly and winds up pulling Victoria towards the football field. Large numbers of people are filtering towards the bleachers to take up seats, and Victoria can see that there's a stage set up on the turf. She's already bored, reaching into her purse for her headphones so that she'll have something else to listen to while Taylor drinks in whatever pro-Blackwell propaganda the staff has to spread, when she spots someone she knows. Two people, actually.  
  
Nathan is standing stage side, looking uneasy and out of place a few paces away from his father, with his hands in his pockets. Sean Prescott is talking animatedly with a heavyset man with a bald head and a deep, furrowed brow. Both of them are in suits and ties. Nathan, on the other hand, looks as though he just rolled out of bed, like he wants to just sink inside of his sweater and fade away. Victoria shoves her headphones back into her purse and elbows Taylor sharply in the ribs. "Did Nate say anything to you about coming?" she asks, without taking her eyes off of him.  
  
"Huh?" Taylor looks around, confused, before she follows Victoria's gaze and spots Nathan, as well. "Wow. No, he didn't. But, I mean, it's the Prescotts. You know they fund the shit out of this place, right?"  
  
"Yeah," murmurs Victoria. Something doesn't feel quite right, but she's not sure what. She wants to break away from Taylor and approach the stage, pull Nathan aside and ask him why he's lurking around Blackwell staff like a groupie, but the stage lights are suddenly flashing on, and Sean Prescott and the bald man are moving towards it. She's still staring at Nathan when Taylor yanks her into a seat off to the side, a poor angle that puts them nearly sideways with the stage.  
  
Nathan stays back during the whole thing. She has a good view on him from where they're sitting, and he's keeping off to the side of the platform, arms crossed, looking like he's waiting to leave. Victoria barely listens as the heavyset man introduces himself as Principal Ray Wells and talks about Blackwell Academy's long tradition of unmatched excellence. He goes on about the school's art and science programs and its generous scholarships and emphasizes the vast amount of opportunities that Blackwell has to offer its prospective students. The speech seems very standard, like it's been recycled from previous years. What gets Victoria's attention is when Wells steps aside and says, "And now I'd like to welcome someone whose support has been absolutely crucial to Blackwell Academy's continued success. The funding we have been provided by the Prescott Foundation has enabled us to expand for bigger, brighter futures— to cement that Blackwell will always remain a place of limitless potential, and to ensure that we stay two steps ahead of some of the finest art institutions in the world. Please welcome Sean Prescott to the stage."  
  
Wells begins clapping to prompt the audience, which soon follows. Victoria taps a hand against her knee soundlessly, slightly appalled by the noise and enthusiasm of the crowd. There are few people in Arcadia Bay with positive things to say about the Prescott Foundation, let alone its owner. There have been rumors lately of a new land development project that will level a lot of the surrounding forest in the Bay, and nobody is happy about it— not even her own parents, whom Victoria figured would want to sign up for a new luxury home right away. But here is half the population of Arcadia Bay, sitting and cheering for Sean Prescott.  
  
"There's a lot of hypocrites in this stupid fucking place," Victoria murmurs to herself.  
  
"What?" Taylor turns to look at her. "What was that?"  
  
"Nothing," says Victoria as Sean Prescott takes the microphone.  
  
"Thank you... Thank you." Prescott is smiling benevolently unto the crowd, something Victoria can only see because his face is being projected onto one of several screens set up around the football field. "What a pleasure it is to see Blackwell Academy through into what will inevitably be another auspicious year. The Prescott Foundation has been incredibly proud of its position as Blackwell Academy's foremost patron for more than a decade so far, and we hope to see that relationship go on for decades more." He pauses for applause.  
  
"Now," he continues, "as some of you are aware, for the past two years, the Prescott Foundation has been attempting to establish, for Blackwell, a contract with a name a lot of you may know... And although we've received positive feedback on our invitation, well, the life of a world renowned photographer is a busy one, and there were obligations to be filled with other schools first. Still, we've maintained communication and kept the offer open..."  
  
Victoria feels herself start to go cold. _No way,_ she thinks. _No fucking way._ She looks between Prescott on the stage and Nathan down at the side. He hasn't moved from where he is, staring out beyond the field as if he can't wait to be anywhere but where he is now. She looks back to Prescott as he continues, his confident voice ringing smugly through the speakers.  
  
"And I am utterly delighted to be able to announce to you right here and right now that, beginning with the 2012 school year, Mark Jefferson will be teaching at Blackwell Academy in a permanent position."  
  
There is cheering, shrieking, clapping. Beside her, Taylor squeals, rocking up and out of her seat like she's at a concert. There's an explosive energy in the crowd, and it's electric. Victoria can taste it. Of course everyone is thrilled. Of _course_. Mark Jefferson is a household name. He's one of the most celebrated photographers of the modern era. Having him at Blackwell Academy means renewed funding and interest and _status_ , putting Blackwell ahead of almost every other school out there and revitalizing the entire town. Jefferson is one of the best of the best, the finest the world has to offer. And he's going to be teaching at Blackwell starting next year. The intake year of the class Hayden and Taylor and Nathan all intend to make it into.  
  
Just like that, she's been dealt a new hand, and the rules of the game have changed completely. She needs to react.  
  
Victoria's pulse is throbbing behind her eyes, below her ears, in her throat. She looks numbly towards the stage.  
  
Sean Prescott has his face turned up towards the stage lights. The smile on his face is rapturous. Triumphant.

   
  


"So _now_ you'll come? Just like I said."  
  
Nathan's voice cuts into her like a hot knife, striking out behind her shoulder. Victoria rounds on him, nearly dropping the registration papers, and for a moment they stand there staring at each other in a total stalemate, all tension and pressure and gazes that won't quite meet.  
  
"There you are," she says instead of responding, because she doesn't know what to say. She looks Nathan over. He smells ashy, and his skin is pale, bordering sickly, the color people turn when they're on the wrong side of nauseous. Nathan's looking at her with lowered eyebrows and lips pressed tightly together, like he wants to say something, but is restraining himself. But that's the thing. He doesn't have to say anything. Victoria already knows everything he could possibly say right now, and that makes her feel angry and defensive.  
  
Why does she feel so ashamed? Why is she letting him make her feel this way?  
  
"I'm just saying," says Nathan, and his voice borders cold. Victoria startles. He's never spoken to her in this tone before. "I'm just saying that I told you so. Told you you'd change your mind and come to Blackwell if Jefferson signed up."  
  
She thumbs the papers and gnaws on her lower lip and reminds herself that she's not going to let anyone talk to her like this, _nobody_ , not even Nathan. Part of her wants to scream _What the fuck is your problem?_ and _Why do you care?_ , wants to shriek so loud that a crowd gathers and stares and asks what's wrong. But she's Victoria Chase, and she knows better. Appearances are everything. She maintains her composure, glosses her expression and her voice and her attitude over in a layer of frost. "I don't recall ever denying that," she says plainly, her tone hard. That'll do.  
  
"I just think it's _funny_ ," Nathan goes on, giving a shrug that's so overdone that Victoria thinks he must have struggled to force himself to do it, to affect detachment.  
  
"And what is so funny about it," she says, although she isn't sure if she wants to hear the answer.  
  
"You wouldn't come for Hayden or for Taylor." Nathan pauses there, and Victoria suddenly thinks _No, no, don't say it, no_. But he does, blue eyes looking at a point beyond her shoulder, somewhere a thousand miles away. "You wouldn't come for me."  
  
It feels like he's lashed her in the throat, and suddenly Victoria wants to say _That's bullshit_ , and she wants to say _You don't really think that_ , and she wants to say _I'm just trying to look out for myself_ , and she wants to say _I'm sorry_.  
  
Instead, she says, bitter, wild, hurt, because sometimes that's the only way she knows how to be, "Why the fuck are you taking it so _personally?_ "  
  
Nathan's expression changes then. His eyes dart up to hers, wide, disbelieving, then his lips part soundlessly. A barely audible exhale rattles out of him, the sound of a wounded animal. Something inside of Victoria tells her that she should be afraid of him in this moment, but she isn't. She wants to reach out for his hands and hold them tightly, sealing her fingertips over his bruised knuckles. She wants to cup his face in her palms and press her forehead to his. She wants to put her arms around him and sink to the grass and put her mouth to his temple so that he's the only one that can hear her when she says his name. Nathan brings out the parts of her that she's buried deep inside of her rib cage and hidden in the marrow of her bones. He makes her strong. He makes her so weak.  
  
But he's already turning away, and before she can react, he's gone.

   
  


"I _cannot_ believe you're coming," Taylor trills at Victoria later over a pitcher of homemade sangria that's getting the both of them drunk pretty quickly. Taylor has her long, tanned legs stretched out in front of her, her feet buried in the sand up to the ankles. She's been saying it all day, over and over, _I can't believe you're coming to Blackwell!_ It's starting to become annoying.  
  
"Me neither," says Victoria, and she'd be more irritated if she weren't so tipsy. She dips a finger into the pitcher and soaks it into the blood red concoction, pulling it free to suck the stickiness off. The whole day has felt a little bit surreal, and sitting here by the ocean with Taylor drinking is making her feel even more lost and hazy.  
  
"I'm so excited," Taylor bubbles, her cheeks pink. She's looking over at Victoria adoringly, her gaze so intense that it's hard not to feel embarrassed by it. "I'm so fucking excited!" she laughs, snuggling into her side. "So who have you told? _When_ are you going to tell? Everyone's going to be so stoked!"  
  
_Nathan knows_ , Victoria almost says, but instead she just shrugs. "I'll tell all those assholes at the next party. Give 'em a _real_ reason to do shots." She gives her haughtiest eye roll.  
  
Taylor giggles, digging around in her bag. She pulls a pack of cigarettes and a lighter free, offering Victoria one. When she shakes her head, Taylor lights one for herself, mumbling past the cigarette clamped between her lips. "Bet you're suuuuper excited about Mr. Mark Jefferson."  
  
She is. When she thinks about it, her guts all twist together into knots, and she can't help but picture, vividly, the opportunities waiting for her (she could be his protégé; she's good enough, she _knows_ it). But that anticipation is tempered heavily by that meeting at the Bean Hip Cafe almost two years ago, and when she dredges up that memory, she feels the rejection and humiliation all over again, reliving it so vividly in her head that she can even feel how cold and damp her boots had been in the parking lot. "Right," she says, sourly. "The one time I met him he acted like I didn't even exist." This is the type of confession she can only make to Taylor when she's on something. Never sober. Victoria Chase is not one to admit a disadvantage so freely.  
  
There's a sweet little laugh from her side. "Oh, haven't you noticed?" Taylor says with a smile, reaching up to preen at her long hair. "They say he's into blondes."  
  
It's obviously a joke, but Victoria looks at her thoughtfully. When she gets home that night, ready to sleep off the highs and lows of the day, the one thing she makes herself do before climbing into bed is book an appointment with her hairdresser for the next week.

   
  


Mark Jefferson's acceptance of the Prescott Foundation proposal makes front page news in all of the local newspapers, but there are only two of those, anyway, and fuck-all is happening anywhere else in town. Victoria sneaks out of the car while her father has pulled over for gas and snags a copy of one of them from the dispenser rusting against the side of the building. She's removing the relevant pages and folding them up into her purse when she receives a text from Nathan.  
  
_i see you_  
  
She lowers her phone and looks around. Nathan's bright red truck is parked only a few paces away. She doesn't know how she missed it. Nathan's sitting in the driver's seat, one arm hanging out of the window. He motions at her to come over, but she just stands there at first, uneasy. She hasn't spoken to Nathan since that heated moment on the Blackwell Academy grounds last week. He hasn't texted her, nor has he made a single one of his late night phone calls, something that still happens at least twice a week. It has become tiring over the past few days to pretend like everything's fine to their mutual friends, although Victoria thinks that they must suspect that something's up.  
  
But she finds herself walking over to his truck anyway. She stands outside of the door, suddenly glad that she'd touched up her lipstick just a few minutes ago, that she looks impeccable and unbothered. Nathan, on the other hand, looks scattered. He's clearly on something, all wide pupils and microscopic twitches. He's staring at her.  
  
"You changed your hair," he says.  
  
Victoria reaches up to touch it, and she's greeted by the completely alien feeling of having nothing to run through and wrap around her fingers. It's not the first time this week she's had that jarring moment of total disconnect with her body. She's never made such a drastic change to her hair before, cropping nearly all of it off and lightening it all to a golden blonde. It's a look that fits her surprisingly well; even her mother, whom Victoria had expected to freak out completely, had just nodded and said it was 'nice'— which, for her mother, Victoria knew was an incredibly positive reaction.  
  
"Yeah," she says. "I wanted a change."  
  
"Do you—" Nathan halts there, looking towards the ground in an anxious way. "Do you want to come for a ride?"  
  
It's late, and she's supposed to be heading home, and she doesn't know where she stands with Nathan right now. Victoria looks over her shoulder, where her father is returning to the car. It would be easy just to leave, but that's not a factor. It's never been a factor. "Give me a second," she says finally. She walks over to get her father's permission.  
  
Nathan drives slow for once, his phone cheerfully telling him which turns to take. Victoria doesn't ask where they're going. She just sits in the passenger seat, staring out of the window.  
  
Out of nowhere, Nathan speaks, as if picking up a conversation she doesn't remember starting. "Kristine's leaving."  
  
Her mind is wiped free of every other thing that had been on it. "What?"  
  
"She's joined the Peace Corps." Nathan's grip tightens visibly on the steering wheel. "So she's ditching. Deployment kicks in around when we'd be starting at Blackwell."  
  
"What do you mean she's _ditching?_ " Victoria asks sharply.  
  
"I mean she's ditching. Like she's fucking off and out of this shithole. Maybe forever." Nathan is interrupted by his phone's navigational system, which informs him to _Turn left onto 22nd_.  
  
Victoria struggles to parse Nathan's mood. It's hard to tell what he's feeling when he's medicated, whether that's illegally or not. But all she can think is that Kristine Prescott is really the only thing Nathan's _got_ at home. That she's the only good thing Nathan has there, the one member of his family Nathan can talk about without looking like he's suppressing the need to gag. Victoria can recall a dozen different instances off the top of her head where she'd watched as Kristine positioned herself between her father and her brother and said _Dad, just leave him alone_. Maybe Kristine hasn't always been the most effective defense, and there still seems to be so much that she is totally ignorant of when it comes to Nathan, but she'd still always been there when Victoria couldn't be.  
  
And now she's leaving, and Victoria very suddenly hates her for it. Maybe that's hypocritical, because Victoria knows she hasn't been all that reliable, either. But how can she just leave? How can she do this to Nathan?  
  
"I'm sorry," she says finally, loathing herself for not knowing what to say.  
  
But the boy in the driver's seat, the one that Victoria keeps held close to her chest but can never quite read, seems again to be a thousand miles away. "Whatthefuckever," mutters Nathan, and Victoria puts a hand to her throat and tries to massage the knot away.  
  
Ten minutes later, the GPS has taken them to an ugly old RV parked out near an auto repair shop. When Nathan climbs out and asks her if she's coming, she agrees only because she doesn't like the look of the guy waiting expectantly in the lot, or the dog circling at his thighs. She stays close to Nathan's side, intending to remain totally silent, but that idea goes out of the window when the dirtbag guy demands to know who she is.  
  
"Who's this?" the guy says in a voice that's like dust poured over sandpaper, jerking his chin in her direction. Victoria feels immediately affronted, but for Nathan's sake, she doesn't say anything rude.  
  
"A friend," says Nathan bluntly. "Can we go in now?"  
  
"No. She waits out here with my dog." The man puts a huge hand on top of the dog's head, stroking it slowly between the eyes, then gives it a nudge. Victoria makes herself stay exactly where she is rather than back up the way she wants to. She doesn't like the way the dog is looking at her. It's obviously an extremely territorial animal. The look it's giving Nathan is a lot worse, though; it keeps turning its head towards him, and it lets a growl start to rumble deep within its chest like a motor. Nathan just stares back at it warily.  
  
"I don't think so," Victoria snaps, looking between Nathan, the dog, and the stranger. She has no idea why they're even here to begin with, but she's starting to get an idea, and she isn't going to let herself be intimidated by this loser. "Look, I don't know who the fuck you are, but I'm going to take a _wild_ guess and assume you're the guy Nathan gets his shit from."  
  
The man's mouth twitches upwards under his appallingly unkempt facial hair. "How'd you figure that? Is it 'cause you're sharp, or 'cause I just _look_ that way?"  
  
"Both," says Victoria coldly.  
  
"Christ. You really got this resting bitch face thing down, you know that?" says the guy, looking between her and Nathan before he steps aside and hauls the door of the RV open.  
  
"Yes," says Victoria. " _Thank_ you." She steps in ahead of Nathan and then immediately wonders why she insisted on coming in. It's disgusting inside, like the thing hasn't had a good dusting in a decade. There's clutter laid out everywhere and egregious posters of naked women hanging out for anyone to see. Victoria scowls and sits at the computer, which appears to have the only chair in the RV aside from the driver's seat. She crosses her legs and pretends that she's not uncomfortable.  
  
Through Nathan's ensuing conversation with him, Victoria learns that the dealer's name is Frank, and he is easily one of the most unpleasant people she's ever encountered. Not a single friendly word comes out of his mouth during the whole exchange, and he repeatedly doubles back on everything he says. Watching him converse with Nathan is like observing two people speaking in a foreign language. Victoria had figured that they had come for weed, but now she's not so sure. Whatever's in the small box Frank eventually hands over, it clinks together like glass.  
  
"Yeah, yeah," Frank's saying, looking irritated. "It'll do you fine. I still don't know why the fuck you would want it like this, but, look, you can fuck yourself up really bad on this shit _easy_. And not in a good way. I mean in a way that'll have you fucking dead. I mean it. Figure out your limits. I'm _not_ having this come back 'round to me."  
  
"Right," says Nathan, but he's clearly distracted and not really listening. He digs around in his pocket with his free hand and holds out a plastic bag.  
  
"You couldn't do the unmarked envelope shit?"  
  
"What?" says Nathan, and he sort of half smiles. "And look like an addict?"  
  
Frank peers into the bag, fingers sweeping through the contents. "I think we're level. Now get the fuck out of here." Victoria, who hasn't said anything during the exchange, gives Frank her most judgmental look as they leave. Frank, on the other hand, doesn't hesitate to respond: "Goddamn Blackwell assholes. Can't stand any of you."  
  
"Neither of us go to—"  
  
"But you will, won't you?" Frank cuts her off, holding the door of his RV open for the two of them. As soon as they've stepped out, he slams it shut. It just barely misses closing on the hem of Victoria's skirt.  
  
"I do _not_ like that guy," Victoria says immediately as she follows Nathan back to his truck.  
  
"You don't have to," says Nathan. "But you should maybe send him a Christmas card, since he's pretty much the hidden factor of every party we've ever gone to."  
  
This prompts a slight smile from Victoria, and she feels cautiously more at ease. This is more typical of her usual banter with Nathan. She watches as he carefully lays the box down in the back seat of his truck and secures it beneath his heavy backpack. She wants to ask what it is, but she's not going to incite his ire just as things have begun to feel semi normalized. "That's not going to happen," she calls out as she moves to the passenger side door and climbs up and inside.  
  
"You send _me_ Christmas cards," says Nathan, starting up the engine.  
  
"No, I send you awesome prints of photos I've taken of you over that year," says Victoria. "Signed and everything. They're going to pretty much be priceless in the future." She looks at him sideways from beneath her eyelashes, smiling tentatively, hoping that he'll smile back, wanting badly for things to feel balanced again between them.  
  
"They already are priceless." Nathan doesn't smile, but that's fine. It's the way he says it. Victoria reaches across the console for his hand, impulsively; she's relieved when he lets her take it, and they drive on like that, hands clasped together.  
  
It's dark enough by now that they should be slowing down, but Nathan seems to be antsy to get home— which means that she needs to be dropped off first. They have to take the long way around, cutting through the back roads that hug the mountains. It's so quiet inside the truck that Victoria nearly nods off.  
  
That doesn't last. She is woken up very abruptly by Nathan cursing loudly, and then an incredible force is enacted on the truck, sending her launching forward. Her seat belt stops her from slamming right into the dashboard— that, and the airbag, which deploys so fast that she doesn't even know what's going on at first. It sends her snapping back against the seat, gasping without actually managing to breathe. She can hear the tires screeching as the truck comes to a hard stop against the side of the road, halfway off into the ditch. Her heart's going so fast that Victoria's afraid she's going to faint. It's all over in seconds— one moment, they're on the road, and then they're not, and even though they've come to a halt she still feels like she's being hurled from her seat.  
  
"What the _fuck_ , Nathan!" Victoria barely even recognizes her own voice, the sob in it.  
  
"I'm sorry! Fuck, I'm _sorry_ , I didn't fucking _see_ it—"  
  
"See _what?!_ " she shrieks hysterically, shoving the airbag away. She doesn't think she's injured. She's fumbling blindly at her own body, touching her face, terrified that she's hit her head or hurt her face and doesn't realize it, or something equally unfair and cruel. Her hands are shaking so much that it takes several tries to undo her seat belt.  
  
Nathan's already stumbling out of the truck, where he's keeled over, hands on his knees. Victoria manages to get herself free, but she can barely walk. The shock and suddenness of it all has effectively crippled her physically. She manages to get around the front of the truck to stare at Nathan, who she thinks at first is retching, but then she realizes what he's doing. He's looking at something.  
  
There's a deer lying on the gravel. It's so dark out that the puddle of blood it's laying in looks like ink, its redness only identifiable where the headlights wash over it. It's twitching, head making little spasms, body quivering with little ripples. It looks young, a buck of maybe two years at the most. Its huge black eyes are trained right on Victoria.  
  
A deer. They've hit a deer.  
  
"Is it dead?" she hears herself say, putting one hand on the truck to steady herself. It feels wet. She turns to look. There's blood all over the mangled front bumper. She tears her hand away and stares at it, too stunned to react with even the most basic disgust.  
  
Nathan's still leaning over the deer. He's not moving. He hasn't said a word.  
  
"Nathan?" she whispers.  
  
He looks up at her, and then he turns back towards the truck. He opens the back seat doors, and she suddenly wants to scream at him for wanting to check up on his fucking drugs, for not noticing the deer, for driving recklessly enough to hit something in the first place. She staggers forward and grabs him with a fistful of the back of his jacket, yanking hard.  
  
"Nathan!" she snarls. " _Nathan!_ "  
  
When he turns back towards her, he's holding his camera. She looks into the cabin and sees that his backpack is gaping open. _His camera?_ she thinks. _Why?_  
  
He pushes past her and moves over the deer again. She doesn't have to wait to hear the shutter close to know that he's taking a photo. Victoria stands there unsteadily, her makeup smeared in dark circles beneath her eyes, the faintest ache in her neck and back starting to throb. Just ten minutes ago, she'd told herself that they'd gone back to normal, that things were fine.  
  
_How fucking stupid am I?_  
  
She doesn't understand him at all. There's no way to know Nathan's moods or his motivations and he's really the only person she's ever met that seems to be more fundamentally broken than she is, and she's just now realizing that that's never made him even a little bit easier to figure out. She watches as Nathan takes photos of the dying animal, and she hears herself plead with him to get back into the truck with her, to leave it there, to just _go_ , but she's not with herself in that moment. She's not with herself when they _do_ finally get back on the road, when they leave the wounded animal behind, when the blood dries on her hand and stains permanently into her sleeve. She's not with herself when Nathan follows her into the Chase home and stands with her at the sink, watching red fade into pink down the drain. She's not with herself when he pushes his sleeves up and they both pretend not to notice that the harsh yellow lighting in the bathroom shines right off of the pearl-white scars on the soft parts of his forearms.  
  
Right before he leaves, he puts his arms around her, pulls her close and cups her head when she buries her face into his shoulder, as if he's not the one that needs it.  
  
Victoria can't quantify what she has with Nathan any more. She's not sure if she ever could.

   
  


They receive their letters that spring, and Victoria has to admit to herself that it feels good to see _Accepted_ at the top of a letter for the first — and hopefully not the last — time in her life. They hold off the celebrations until Taylor gets her letter, which turns out to be delayed by a week due to an administrative error.  
  
In the end, everyone who matters to Victoria has gotten into Blackwell. They throw a party that lasts for a solid three days at the Prescott manor, which has been all but abandoned over spring break with Kristine off at Peace Corps training and Nathan's parents at their property in Nassau. And, for a few months, things aren't that bad, and Victoria is surprised to find herself looking forward to the experience in general— not just for Mark Jefferson. The reality of boarding — being completely away from her family's home — hits her all at once, and it's utterly thrilling in the best, most terrifying way. For once, when she says she's looking forward to her future, Victoria can now be truthful.  
  
Everyone seems to be riding a high that spring and for that summer, even Nathan, who seems to be doing better than he has in a while. Victoria doesn't pry often, but she thinks he's been steady on his medication, and she's inwardly glad for him. He seems to have more energy, although with that comes more tension, and his temper seems to get even shorter. But he's doing well enough in every other way that Victoria can't fault him. He's not perfect, and he never will be, but neither is she, and she can pretend enough for the both of them.  
  
They've made a promise together to take over Blackwell, and they're going to see it through.  
  
But summer turns into autumn, and as they begin to make the surreal transition of moving their entire lives to Blackwell Academy in the two weeks prior to the school year beginning, Nathan adopts a new photography style.  
  
He starts shooting in black and white.


	3. negative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers the first half of Nathan and Victoria's first year at Blackwell. The second half will follow in approximately one week or so— I originally intended both halves to be part of the same chapter, but they were absolutely enormous together, so I've split them up.
> 
> As always, feedback really matters to me— I'd love to hear your thoughts so far.

The orientation week before classes begin for the 2012 Blackwell Academy school term gives Victoria a thoroughly unsatisfying taste of what to expect from the upcoming year. It's a denser, more stifling version of the open house she'd visited with Taylor so many months ago, filled with a diverse group of wide eyed freshmen from all over the country. Members of the swim team walk around with flyers as though they have a quota they are desperate to fill; the science department offers demonstrations out on the lawn. Victoria cuts out of every single icebreaker she's invited to join, and she and Nathan spend those first few days mostly making fun of it all, but she doesn't fail to notice that he's had a vaguely disoriented look on his face ever since their arrival and moving in day, as if by coming to Blackwell he's been caught in a state of vertigo and still has yet to right himself.  
  
But Nathan tends to look that way a lot, more than Victoria is willing or able to acknowledge, and as long as he seems to be holding it together, she's not going to go digging, lest she make it worse.  
  
Victoria has her class schedule memorized within the first few minutes of receiving it— the important parts, anyway, the cells that say _Introduction to Photography_ , starting with the very first class slotted into Monday morning. She lucks out when she learns that Nathan is signed up for the same periods; Hayden and Taylor aren't as fortunate, stuck in the alternate afternoon class together. Starting her year at Blackwell Academy with Mark Jefferson's class seems like an auspicious way to kick things off. She spends the night before sitting up in bed, sleepless, thumbing through her portfolio. She's going to make a completely different impression on her idol this time; Victoria promises herself this, rakes it over her heart and impresses it into her soul. It's going to be different this time.   
  
That first morning, she exchanges texts with Nathan.  
  
_when will you be ready? want to show up together?_  
  
He answers almost immediately. _u nervous?_  
  
She resents him deeply for that comment, for picking out the thing that's kept her up all night. Victoria has her foundation laid out clean and matte; no one should be able to tell that she hasn't slept in over a day. Nobody should be able to see into her anxiety. Nobody except for Nathan, apparently.  
  
_stfu. i'll meet you outside the dorms._  
  
When she heads down there twenty minutes later, she doesn't see him. Victoria waits as students rush by to their first classes in pairs and groups, all chattering excitedly to one another. She clutches her phone in her hands and stares down at it so that she looks occupied, so that she doesn't look like some kind of loser all alone. A few minutes pass, and Victoria is aware that she has only about ten more to get to class. She's about to send Nathan a pissed off text when she decides that she doesn't have time for even that. She still has to locate the classroom, and she doesn't trust the Blackwell Academy app on her phone to show her how to get there. She's rushing past the dorms when she hears a voice that brings her to a stop.  
  
"Not me. Talk to my dad."  
  
_Nathan,_ she thinks, and when she turns to look, she sees him standing near the gate with the principal. Wells is standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at a sullen Nathan, who's got his hands in his pockets and his backpack hanging off of one shoulder. It's unzipped, splaying open to show his proverbial guts; his camera's in there, a pack of cigarettes, a folder. Victoria wants to walk over and zip it back up for him, but she hasn't been noticed, and she's not sure if she wants to be.  
  
"Well, Nathan, we're glad regardless to have you here." Wells is doing a very good job of feinting at genial. Victoria almost believes it, but the dull look in his eyes reminds her too much of her father, and she's not buying whatever he's selling.  
  
Neither is Nathan, apparently. "Whatever." He's staring at the ground like he can't wait to get going. Victoria checks the time on her phone.  
  
She has a first impression to make. He'll catch up.

   
  


Mark Jefferson isn't in the classroom by the time Victoria gets there with three minutes to spare. Nathan hasn't shown up, either, but she's not surprised by that. Most of the other students seem to be there already, lounging around at and on desks like they've been sitting there for years. She picks out a few faces: one of them is a Bigfoots hopeful; another has the room two doors down from hers. But the person that catches her attention and holds it — tears it away from thoughts of Jefferson for just a moment — is the girl sitting at the desk squared in the far back corner of the class. Victoria thinks she recognizes her from the dorms; she'd seen her on the move-in day. She's pretty sure they share a floor.  
  
She's beautiful. She's exactly the kind of girl Victoria is warily attracted to, the sort she always imagines in guilty fantasy; that's the first thing she thinks as she studies her closely for the first time. Her hair is a sheet of sunset gold spilling down her back, slashed through with a bright blue feather earring. Her face is a study in symmetry, perfectly balanced and makeup free in a way that irritates Victoria just to look at. She sits there with a sort of glow about her, even though there are paint stains on her ragged jeans and a noticeable hole in her black t-shirt, right at the hip, where tanned skin peeks through. She looks like she's just checked out of the Hotel California, sitting there with a pencil volleying between her fingers.  
  
Victoria dislikes her immediately.  
  
She takes a seat one desk over from the girl, who, upon hearing the chair scrape across the floor, turns to her with a slight smile, before glancing back down at her phone. Victoria does not return the smile. She slides her textbook out of her bag and sits up straight with it balanced on her lap, the top edge just touching her knees.  
  
Jefferson shows up a minute before the bell, but he doesn't look like he's in any kind of rush. Victoria catches her breath when she sees him. He's dressed differently than how she remembers him from that first time — he's more casual here, jeans beneath his blazer — but the three years between then and now don't seem to have aged him at all. He's always looked both youthful and hardened all at once, somehow.  
  
He seems comfortable already, greeting the class with a smile. As the bell sounds off, she sees one more person slip through the door— Nathan, who gives her a glance before taking the only empty remaining seat, one on the other side of the classroom. Jefferson spares the clock a look, and then moves to shut the door. The students stop murmuring when he trails back towards the front of the classroom, segueing into an easy introduction: "So," he says, and Victoria has to remind herself that it's the real deal, that she's going to get to sit on lectures with _the_ Mark Jefferson for the rest of the year, "First day for you guys— and for me, too. I've only been doing this teaching thing for a few years, so let's see if we can figure it all out together, yeah?"  
  
Victoria leans forward in her desk, a hand at her chin. For once, she allows herself to be like everyone else, and she is just as focused on him as the rest. Everyone, that is, except for two people: Nathan, who is rolling his fingers against his desk as he bounces one leg and looks out the window, and the girl in the torn jeans, who's still on her phone.  
  
The first lesson is mostly an outline of the rules, requirements, and lessons to be covered in the upcoming semester. Towards the end, Victoria finds herself checking the time— not because she is impatient to leave, but because she wants to introduce herself to her teacher formally, and she wants to be able to do it with enough time to get to her literature class. When the bell sounds off again, she makes quick work of slipping out of her desk and hurrying to the front of the classroom as her peers begin packing up.  
  
She hovers near his desk for a moment, her stomach knotting and unknotting itself, but he's distracted, leaning over the outline on his laptop. Victoria tells herself, _Just fucking do it,_ and she forces herself to say, "Hey."  
  
Mr. Jefferson looks up. He breaks into a smile. "Hello, there— ah—" He looks down at his laptop for a moment, surveys the class roster. "Victoria, is it? Sorry. Promise I'll have everyone's name down by the end of the week."  
  
He doesn't seem to remember or recognize her, which doesn't surprise Victoria. She'd been utterly forgettable that first time, a naïve girl who had, quite frankly, deserved the embarrassment she'd gotten for being so poorly prepared. Victoria has come to accept the incident with a sort of self punishing philosophy; she'd fucked up. The only way to not feel humiliated by it is to remind herself that she is not that girl any more.  
  
Still, there's relief in seeing that he does not recall who she is. Like she'd been throwing all of her money down on a single bet, and now her numbers have come up, so she can start to breathe again. "Oh, don't worry about it!" she says as warmly as she manage. She's feeling more confident by the second, drinking in the advantage over self-consciousness that being mostly alone in a room with another person can offer. "I just wanted to say hello _personally_." She holds her hand out. "Victoria Chase."  
  
Mr. Jefferson seems amused, but not condescendingly so. He reaches out to shake her hand; she thinks that he's holding back his grip for her sake. "Mark Jefferson," he says, looking like he enjoys the game.  
  
"I already know," says Victoria. She lets her grasp linger for a moment before pulling it away. "Who wouldn't? _If_ they're serious about a career in photography, that is..."  
  
"So you've followed me," says Mr. Jefferson, leaning a hip back into his desk, his arms crossed. He's so self-assured.  
  
She could say so many things in response to that statement. She can tell him _Yes, ever since I was a little girl_ or _It's defined my goals in life_ or _I came here, to Blackwell Academy, to learn from you_. But telling him what she had seen in him was what had ruined her first impression three years ago. Victoria doesn't want him to think of her as a fan. She wants to be his ingénue. His protégé.  
  
"Well, you've been a huge influence on the art since the early nineties," is what she winds up pointing out. "I'm more into work from the sixties to eighties, but I would be remiss not to have studied the golden era of the supermodel."  
  
"You have goals within the field?" Mr. Jefferson asks, and Victoria thinks — no, she's pretty sure — that he sounds a little bit pleased.  
  
"Yes," she breathes, feeling her heart clench up behind her rib cage. "In ten years, I'll be the one shooting all the covers."  
  
He seems to enjoy her confidence, because his lips part, and his teeth show when he laughs. "You keep up that attitude and I'm sure you will be."  
  
Victoria rocks forward on her heels, thinking _Yes, yes,_ and she's going to respond again when she feels a hand against her arm. Irritated, she turns. Nathan.  
  
"I've got literature, too," he says, looking at her without smiling. "We should get going."  
  
She wants to linger, but he's right. Victoria hesitates for only a moment before looking back to Mr. Jefferson. "I'll see you tomorrow," she says.  
  
"Of course," he responds immediately. He nods her off.  
  
Nathan's hand closes on her bicep, and Victoria gets the picture. With a composed smile, she heads for the door. Nathan trails at her side, hands in his pockets.  
  
Just as they're about to leave, she hears someone get up at the back of the room. She turns just in time to see the girl who looks like she's perpetually caught in a Los Angeles breeze approach the teacher's desk.  
  
"Hey!" she says, beaming. "I'm Rachel Amber."  
  
"Well," says Mr. Jefferson, looking her over, "hello there."  
  
Nathan tugs her out of the room before she can see — or hear — anything else.

   
  


_ENTER THE VORTEX_ , the posters all implore.  
  
It's impossible to miss them. The crimson ink and black lettering catch Victoria's eye every time she sees one. _Learn more,_ it says in finer print at the bottom, _Wednesday, September 5th, 5:00 PM, auxiliary room #2._ Victoria stands by a bulletin board examining the words over and over. The spiral printed on the poster is deep and hypnotic.  
  
"Thinking about it?" A voice shatters her concentration. Victoria turns to look at the speaker.  
  
A petite girl with full lips and dark hair cupping her jawline stands there with a bright smile warming her pale face. She's playing with the gold chain around her neck. Her demeanor is a little too cutesy for Victoria's tastes— she looks like the kind of girl who still listens to boy bands.  
  
Victoria levels her with a chilly look, wanting to make it clear from the get-go to prospective new friends at this school that she has rigid standards. "What _is_ it?" she asks, glancing back at the poster. "A _cult_? Looks pretty ominous to me."  
  
"Oh, no!" says the girl, her blue eyes widening. "Not at all! We're... well, we're exclusively _in_ clusive. Mostly we throw parties." She smiles again. "The best parties the school has to offer. We had a lot of members graduate last year... so we've got a lot of spots to fill on the council. You can learn more if you come to the meeting after classes today."  
  
It sounds like a practiced spiel, and Victoria is skeptical. "What the hell else do you do aside from throw parties?"  
  
The girl laughs, high and sweet. "Would you believe it? That's pretty much it these days. FYI," she adds, pronouncing the letters _eff-why-eye_ , "I'm Courtney."  
  
Victoria hesitates. She's not one for volunteering, but she's got to fill up her extracurriculars if she's going to come out of Blackwell with a halfway decent résumé. And — well — she's a teenager. She likes partying just as much as the next senior, and she's not ignorant to the fact that she'll be free to do a whole lot more of it now that she's not living at home.  
  
"Victoria," she says. "I guess I'll be seeing you at 5:00."

   
  


To her surprise, Mr. Jefferson is present at that first meeting, and he looks right at her when she walks into the room, catching her gaze with a smile. Victoria understands one thing right off the bat, something that Courtney had failed to mention: the Vortex Club is a magnet for the elite. She gets it now. The students all congregated in this room, the ones already in the club, are fashionable and cool and confident. They have that artsy sort of eclectic laziness to them, they _ooze_ money, and when she sees Mr. Jefferson with them, Victoria immediately makes up her mind to join.  
  
This is her ticket in. She's going to bleed this school dry of everything she can. If she doesn't take advantage of her opportunities here, then someone else will. She can play to win or she can disqualify herself before the game even starts.  
  
It's the easiest decision in the world, and she already knows she's pulling Nathan in.  
  
"I've been given the duty of acting as teacher sponsor for the Vortex Club for this year— and, if that goes well, oncoming years, too, I suppose," says Mr. Jefferson once the information session has begun. "You can come to me to access funding and to run your event proposals by. Other than that— it's all up to the rest of you. I'm going to keep my involvement mostly hands free. Clubs are for students, and should be run by them."  
  
Victoria stares down at the poster she'd taken with her. The red ink circles around and around and around, culminating in a thick black mass at the center of the vortex.  
  
Courtney goes over a brief history of the club, what it started out as, what it means now. She invites everyone in the room to apply to join, but, she notes with a smile, "We're _really_ picky."  
  
Tracing her fingernail through the spiral, Victoria stops it at the center.

   
  


Nathan only responds with _im out_ when she asks him where he is after leaving the meeting, and he doesn't meet up with her for another forty five minutes. By that time, Victoria has finished her dinner with Taylor, and they've split up, Taylor heading to the library and Victoria sitting outside to enjoy the last of the sunlight.  
  
"Where were you?" she asks Nathan when he approaches. She moves to get up from where she's sitting with her back against the tree, but Nathan just crumples next to her in the grass, and she settles back.  
  
"I went for a drive," says Nathan with a shrug. He says it in a tone that Victoria's become used to, the one that says _Don't ask me about it now, but I might talk about it later_. She switches tracks.  
  
"I went to that Vortex Club meeting," she says. "You should join."  
  
What Nathan says takes her by complete surprise. "I'm already in it."  
  
"What?"  
  
Nathan's rubbing a thumb against his knee, where the denim of his jeans looks like it's precariously close to shredding. "Legacy," he says, as if that's supposed to explain anything.  
  
"And that means _what_ , Nate?"  
  
He looks at her and lifts a hand to sweep his hair back. "My sister was in it when she was at Blackwell," he says. "So was my dad."  
  
_Of course,_ thinks Victoria. It's not surprising. She knows, vaguely, of the personal connection that Sean Prescott has to Blackwell Academy. She figures that it's the reason he funds the school in the first place— a desire to own it, after having attended it. "You never told me," she says finally.  
  
"It didn't come up," Nathan says back, and then smiles, small and wry. "I didn't think of asking you because I bet it's going to be some really lame shit. Maybe not now, though."  
  
"Oh, _please_ ," says Victoria, rolling her eyes. "You and I _know_ how to throw a party."

   
  


Courtney tells her that the first Vortex Club party of the year is always the linchpin— the one to set the tone and impression for every party to come, coloring the Vortex Club's reputation for that proceeding year. That was why, Courtney had explained, the first party was the most important one. It would also determine who made it onto the club council — and thus gain decision making power — and who wouldn't.  
  
Victoria finds that she doesn't mind Courtney's company, and Taylor doesn't seem to, either, which surprises her, because Taylor can be both petty and possessive. Victoria has always been content to allow Taylor to defend her position as her friend, figuring that if she wanted to prove her loyalty over and over, well— who was she to stop her? But Courtney doesn't bring out the territorial behavior in Taylor that she's so used to seeing. Maybe it's because Courtney defers to both her _and_ Taylor, treating them both with an equal amount of reverence.  
  
She's organized parties before, but nothing like this. It's suddenly a daunting task to coordinate a budget, a location, a set list, an inventory. These are all things that she has never had to consider before. In the past, all Victoria had had to do was find a weekend that her parents wouldn't be home, post about it on Facebook, and wait. Now, there are technicalities to deal with. The club has decided on a date near the end of September— Thursday, the 27th. That gives them ample amount of time to plan and to slowly gain more members.  
  
"It's not always like this," Courtney says apologetically during one afternoon as they write up the official proposal for submission. "I mean, the organizing. Once we kick off that first party, Vortex Club hangouts are more like... You know, we chat 'n toke and stuff."  
  
"And the girl-on-girl rumors?" Victoria has not failed to notice the many _bi-friendly ;)_ notes on plenty of posters.  
  
"Legit." A laugh from Courtney. "If that's what you're into..." She gives Victoria a look. Victoria does her best to roll her eyes and shrug it off. It's not like she has any experience, anyway, she thinks bitterly. The thought makes her stomach empty out like a drain.  
  
The only person Victoria has not seen attending every club meeting is Nathan. He shows up sometimes, suggests funding, party favors, decor. For some reason, everyone seems prepared to give him a lot of sway in decisions, even though it seems like he doesn't really give a shit either way. Victoria is focused on her classes — particularly photography — and on the reputation she intends to carefully shape, but Nathan seems like he couldn't care less about anything Blackwell _or_ the Vortex has to offer, skipping classes to smoke in his truck or stalk around campus like he owns the grounds. And he does, Victoria supposes. In a way.  
  
But she's got her own things to focus on. She's so busy that it's easy to pretend that she's just forgetting to answer the missed calls from her mother, and to act like Rachel Amber's sunny smiles at her every time she walks into her Introduction to Photography class don't bother her. Maybe one day she'll be able to smile back at Rachel in a way that says _I'm better than you_ , and mean it.

   
  


The gymnasium has somehow transformed entirely from a dull, lifeless place to a thrumming hub of purple light and skull rattling bass. Courtney, whose role on the council seems to be entirely centered around maintaining the entry list, seems to thrive in this environment, thrilled by the ability to accept or shun people at the doors. Hayden launches himself immediately towards the music, the alcohol, and the girls swaying along with both, Taylor tagging along. Even Juliet is here, chatting up more than one member of the Bigfoots. They all seem to be in their element— except for Victoria.  
  
But Nathan is an exception, too. Victoria is a little bit surprised that he's even shown up. He's wired, buzzing with something, and he's walking around like he owns the club. And he _does,_ really; nobody needs more than one chance to hazard a guess at where the Vortex is obtaining its generous funding.  
  
"What do you want?" he says instead of greeting her. Victoria stares at him, wondering if he's feeding her attitude, before he amends, "I've got that holy grail kush—"  
  
Right. Victoria shakes her head and holds up her water bottle, tipping the lip of it towards his nose. Nathan recoils when he smells the Everclear. Victoria laughs. She's feeling pretty decent so far, almost cheerful, even though she knows that she is acutely uncomfortable in this environment. Nathan doesn't drink much lately, she thinks, although when she really considers it, she can't recall ever observing him drinking that much at all. "Why don't you go sell to Courtney? Pretty sure she was looking earlier."  
  
Nathan just grunts instead of replying, shoving his hands in his pockets.  
  
"But be careful," Victoria adds for his sake. "I'm pretty sure Mr. Jefferson might be dropping by at some point." He'd mentioned something about supervision, which Courtney had semi-successfully talked down, but Victoria's not exactly confident that they can get away without faculty dropping by at some point. It's strange, having to worry about being watched over by an adult— it had never been a factor in any of the parties she and Nathan had thrown at their houses.  
  
"I'm not worried," says Nathan. He elbows her lightly. "Where's the rest of that shit?" It takes Victoria a moment to realize that he's nodding towards the bottle. She holds back a smirk and hands it over.  
  
"How about you just take it?" she says. "I'll go grab the rest from Taylor at some point."  
  
"Totally gonna regret this," Nathan says lightly, grabbing at it. "I'll catch you later." Then he pauses, before he's sort of grinning in that way that Victoria knows lacks mirth. "Maybe we can dance together."  
  
It's impossible to tell what he means by that — _if_ he means it — or what kind of game he's playing with her. Victoria finds her mood abruptly soured by it for a reason she can't completely identify, and, paling, she forces a nod. "You can make an attempt later," she says finally. "If you ask nice."  
  
She thinks she sounds confident. She thinks wrong, because Nathan just cuts loose a laugh and turns away from her to weave into the crowd. Victoria watches him go. She presses her hands together, locks her fingers one on top of the other, and clenches.  
  
"Hey," says a voice from behind her.  
  
She turns. Rachel Amber is standing there in an extra large shirt with the neck cut wider to expose her shoulders; between flashes of changing lights, Victoria can see that orange shadow is smeared beneath her eyes.  
  
Rachel has never spoken to her directly before. They sit next to one another in photography class, and occasionally, they make eye contact. Rachel often lingers after class behind her to speak to Mr. Jefferson, and it always bothers the hell out of Victoria, who feels oppressed just by her presence, as if she's forming a queue. She's wondered, several times, what the fuck Rachel Amber's damage is, because she doesn't seem to actually be interested in photography, or much of anything.  
  
Victoria gives her a very deliberate once-over, from her bleeding eyeshadow to her sharp collarbones to the shredded denim shorts she's wearing. "Very heroin chic," she says. It's not a compliment.  
  
"Thank you," says Rachel. She looks pleased. Victoria wants to plant her hands against her chest and shove her.  
  
"That was Kate Moss's worst look, BTW," says Victoria coldly, "and a bullshit time in the fashion industry."  
  
Rachel just laughs. She looks completely unfazed. "Victoria, right?" she says. She's got a rolled cigarette tucked behind her ear, right above that ever present feather. "I heard you had a hella big hand in this party. What do you think about the Vortex?"  
  
Victoria narrows her eyes at her. She has no idea why Rachel is trying to engage her in conversation, and she doesn't trust her motives. She's seen the way she looks at Mr. Jefferson. She doesn't like it. "What do I think? I think I'm wondering how you got on the guest list."  
  
"Alumni," says Rachel helpfully. "I've already been at Black-hell for a year."  
  
This takes Victoria completely by surprise, and it drops her guard for a moment as she blurts out, "Why don't you attend any of the meetings?"  
  
"Fresh blood's good," says Rachel. "I was never on the council, and anyway, I've got other clubs."  
  
Victoria couldn't give less of a shit about what Rachel Amber does with her extracurriculars, so she doesn't ask her to elaborate. She wishes she hadn't handed her drink off to Nathan. The buzz she'd had going is diluting. "Good for you," she says without any hint of passion.  
  
They lapse into an uncomfortable silence. The music pounds harder around them. It feels like it's pushing out of the walls, shoving at Victoria's body, forcing her closer to Rachel in the most claustrophobic way possible. Rachel is beautiful even in the harsh neon lights. She even smells good. Victoria's trying not to think about it.  
  
After a few moments, Rachel says, "You're a photographer?"  
  
Victoria lifts her chin. This is her element, a topic she's more prepared to discuss— and to hold over Rachel's head. "You're not."  
  
"You're really good." Rachel's smiling again, all gleaming white teeth in her tanned face.  
  
"I know." She doesn't. A beat. "So what's _your_ shit? Science? Painting? You don't do _anything_ in Mr. Jefferson's class."  
  
"I want to be a model," says Rachel easily.  
  
Victoria can't help herself; she bursts out laughing.  
  
Somehow, Rachel doesn't look hurt. She's either stupid or ignorant or completely comfortable with herself, and each of those options is equally infuriating. "What?" she says, and she joins in Victoria's laughter, which makes her stop immediately.  
  
"Good luck," says Victoria, feeling the bitterness rush hot up her throat. "I mean, it's a tough industry to break into even for girls that aren't... what, five foot five?"  
  
"Oh, _that_ ," says Rachel. She looks unbothered, reaching up to pluck the cigarette from her ear. She thumbs at it. "I'm not planning on doing runway."  
  
"You're not _planning_ on doing runway," mimics Victoria in the meanest approximation she can make of the vaguely Californian affectation in Rachel's voice. "What the fuck are you doing here, then? Eighteen is already heading past your prime to get a start in the industry. Two more years, and you'll pretty much be decrepit. Sad emoji."  
  
Rachel just looks at her— quiet, thoughtful. Victoria feels something wind its way up her spine to explode in the back of her skull.  
  
She doesn't really know why she's saying these things. Why she doesn't like this girl that she barely knows. Why the way Rachel's looking at her makes Victoria feel like she's flaying her wide open, peeling back her skin to expose the muscle and then slicing into the muscle to reveal the bone. She's issuing a challenge, and Rachel _clearly_ sees it, but she's not taking her up on it. That's never happened before. Nobody has ever failed to back down when Victoria has stepped up.  
  
Victoria wants to fucking strangle her.  
  
Rachel looks like she's about to say something, but a tall girl — _this_ one has the height for runway work — with blue hair and an outfit that is somehow even sloppier appears at her side and grasps her by the arm. "Hey, Rach, let's go smoke that thing you're about to crush," she says, and then she seems to notice Victoria. "Excuse us," she says, instead of apologizing for interrupting.  
  
"You're excused," says Victoria, who has decided that she is done with this conversation, as well. She watches as the blue haired girl tugs Rachel away. Rachel gives Victoria a look over her shoulder, before they're gone, absorbed by the crowd.  
  
The conversation colors the rest of her night, making her feel tense and furious without anywhere to direct it. Victoria tries to find Taylor; when she does, it's in the VIP section, and her friend is on Hayden's lap. Taylor's got her face buried against his shoulder and her legs around his waist, and she doesn't notice Victoria at all. Hayden does, however— he allows her a grin, and he winks at her, like it's a secret between the two of them. Victoria presses her thighs together and backs up out of the VIP section, her heart racing at an unpleasant clip, disgust mounting inside of her. Suddenly, she no longer wants to be at this party, crumpling beneath the pressure of the light and sound and heat and the things she's too afraid to say and try.  
  
Victoria's always telling herself that she's not like other people, and she reassures herself like that's a good thing, but it's usually not. Will there ever be a time when she doesn't feel like an outsider in her own life?  
  
Nathan is wasted by the time she finds him again. The bags under his eyes look so much heavier in the shadows. Victoria wants to ask him if he'll walk her back to her dorm. She wants to ask him if he's actually enjoying himself. She wants to ask him if he's here to hook up with someone. She wants to ask him for that dance.  
  
Instead, she says, "You look like you should stop, Nate."  
  
He collides with her, his dark eyes bright, and locks an arm around her waist, cutting his chin against the slope of her neck. "Aren't you totally fucking glad to be here?" he asks her, his breath hot against her jaw.  
  
Something tilts inside of her, slanting sideways, and Victoria goes still. She presses a hand to his arm, carefully. He's close. He's so close. "Well, this has definitely been _something_. I don't know what the fuck what," she says stiffly.  
  
"I mean at _Blackwell._ " Nathan pulls her towards the wall by the waist and kind of sinks against her. He's not embracing her, not really— too much of it is dead weight. "Away from home," he adds. His voice is a thick drag, impeded by the alcohol she can smell on his breath.  
  
She thinks about that. _Away from home_. She thinks about the text messages from her mother she's read but not replied to. The missed calls and e-mails. She thinks about watching Taylor and Courtney go home for the weekends while she stays in her dorm room and wonders if her father is thinking about her. She thinks about how Nathan seems freer here but even unhappier, somehow. She thinks about how she's not sure where _home_ is, except when it comes to him, and then she says, "We haven't really left, Nathan."  
  
He pulls back and gives her a strange look. For a moment, his eyes flash — briefly — manic, and then he's laughing. "Yeah," he says, letting go of her to spread his hands out in front of himself, framing his fingertips together over the sight of their peers moving together in a mass of tangled bodies amid the music, as if he's taking a photo. "I own this place. Home sweet fuckin' home."  
  
It's not what she meant, but when she searches his face and finds a complete absence of light in it, she realizes that he already knows that.

   
  


Regardless of what Victoria tries, and no matter how hard she works in class, Mr. Jefferson doesn't seem to perceive her any differently. He knows her name, certainly, and he's always pleasant every time they talk, and she knows that just the chance to listen to his lectures is a blessing she should be counting ten times over. But it's not enough. It's an ache that starts quiet in the center of her chest but eventually starts to gape open, burning with infection.  
  
It's not enough to be a good student, but she doesn't want to be a teacher's pet, either. Victoria isn't certain _what_ she wants, just that she wants a huge, nameless _something_ , and she doesn't know how to get it. It's wanting to _be_ him and be near him at the same time. It's coveting his success while wanting to defer to it. It's staying up late into the night in Lightroom, scrapping edit after edit, and seeing him after class the next day with nothing new to show. It's those same nights, but in her bed, beneath the covers, thinking that she'll be eighteen in a few weeks, and then... and then...  
  
It's a cold October morning, a week off from Halloween, when Victoria gets up an hour early. She's dressed and primed and on her way out of the dorms before she can even hear the familiar synthpop rolling out from behind Dana's door. The campus is mostly empty, a vision in chilly fog and trees largely pared of their leaves.  
  
She spends about ten minutes pacing outside of the administrative building, where she smokes two cigarettes and then regrets it, spraying perfume onto the tops of her hands and later rinsing her mouth out with water from the fountain outside of the girls' bathroom. She reapplies her lipstick and then makes up her mind. Mr. Jefferson isn't hard to find; he's in his office, and although Victoria's never been there before, she knows where it is. He's sitting at his desk, tapping at a laptop. Victoria cocks a wrist and knocks on the door frame.  
  
He looks up. He seems slightly surprised, but then he lowers the laptop screen, pushes his chair back, and stands. "Victoria," he says in greeting. He checks the watch on his wrist. "What's this about? Class doesn't start for another — oh — forty five minutes."  
  
"I know," she says, and in the back of her mind she's slowly coming to realize that she's not really sure _what_ this is about. But she has a idea, sort of, even if anxiety is tunneling through her guts. "I had some questions about the last assignment."  
  
Mr. Jefferson looks thoughtful. He crosses his arms. "What kind? You scored a pretty solid mark on that one— ninety six? Ninety seven? What, are you here to ask what little subjective matter brought you down? You're at the top of the class."  
  
"Oh, no," Victoria says. "My mark is fine. I'm just worried that I may not have understood something the way you intended... about portraiture."  
  
"Hm," is all Mr. Jefferson says, and for a moment, Victoria freezes, afraid that he's seen right through her. But then he's easing back into his chair and nodding at the one next to him, reaching out to slide his laptop closer. "Let's pull your paper up and talk about it."  
  
Victoria suppresses a smile as she takes a seat. She waits until he's not looking to drag her chair closer to his— close enough that they're touching. Mr. Jefferson doesn't seem to notice. He pulls the essay up onto the screen and scrolls through it, eyes skimming down the contents.  
  
"I understand that portraiture isn't the end goal for you, right?" he asks, his eyes on the screen. "You want to be a fashion photographer."  
  
"It's the highest form of the art," says Victoria bluntly. "Of course."  
  
"Right. I mean," he amends, laughing, "I don't entirely agree with you, although I would have twenty years ago. Regardless... This is really a fantastic essay on how technology and the advent of social media have changed the nature of photography completely. You _get_ it." He stops scrolling and turns towards her. "So which part do you think you weren't understanding?"  
  
She digs up the explanation she had come up with, delivering it carefully. "Oh," she says, trying to sound smooth. "I just got to thinking about your comments on how the portraiture can function as sort of a _conscience_ for the viewer... I'm not sure what you meant by that."  
  
Mr. Jefferson seems to contemplate this. "Are you asking why humans need a conscience? Or how this specific form of photography can serve as one?"  
  
"The second part," says Victoria. "I mean, I _know_ why a conscience is necessary."  
  
"Look," says Mr. Jefferson with something like a sigh. He leans back in his chair and looks up towards the ceiling. "If we aren't forced to look right into something, then it's not real to us. It might as well not even exist. Have you ever seen a photo that moved you— your very soul? You, and I, and everyone here at Blackwell— we lead easy lives. Photography is a currency that's... well, it's starting to lose its value in a lot of ways. Everyone's got a camera on their cell phone. We've moved beyond a time when a photo could reach iconic status. You take a compelling photo now, and it goes viral for, what? All of twenty four hours?"  
  
Victoria isn't here to listen to his thoughts on the moral decay of society, but she nods along, leaning slightly closer. Her arm brushes his. The way to engage his soul, she thinks, is through his mind. Isn't that always the case with intellectuals? Not that she has any personal experience with the matter, but she's confident she can fake her way there. "It's a shame," she says as sympathetically as she can. "You're absolutely right, Mr. Jefferson. _Everyone_ thinks they can be an artist these days."  
  
"That's not that I'm saying," he says, and she feels admonished even though his tone isn't harsh. She lowers her gaze as he continues. "I'm saying that we're in an era now where we've lost sight of ourselves. Everyone's desensitized to everything. _That's_ why we still need to compose images that are _raw_. You can't just hold up a cell phone to someone at a vulnerable, candid moment and snap something that's going to move people. I know it sounds a little bizarre, but you have to _craft_ photos like that. You have to manufacture a situation in which you can immortalize something natural... Something real. Where _meaning_ meets form and function."  
  
She's staring at his arm. His sleeve is slightly pulled back, exposing the dark hair there. She sucks her lower lip in between her teeth and reaches out to carefully rest her fingertips against it. Her touch is so light that he doesn't seem to notice, because he's still not looking at her.  
  
"We're desensitized," he says finally, "to ugliness— and, I think, to beauty, too... which is the more egregious tragedy." And then he's turning to look at her, his eyes dropping down to where her hand is resting on his arm. He pulls his arm back, and Victoria tries a little smile, a smirk, wanting to look confident, but he knocks her out with what he says next. "But you already know all of this, don't you?"  
  
Her lips part, but nothing comes out.  
  
As if he's reading her mind, Mr. Jefferson's mouth twitches. "You're smart, Victoria," he says, "but not clever." He stands up, putting a hand against the back of her chair. The silent request is obvious: _Get up._ "I'll see you in class soon, alright?"  
  
It's a good thing that Victoria's shock detaches her from the situation; the embarrassment doesn't set in until later, once she's safely down the hall and outside and far enough that she can suck down three more cigarettes with shaky hands. This time, she doesn't try to rid her skin of the smell.

   
  


Mr. Jefferson acts like he hadn't seen her at all just half an hour ago when she enters his class and takes her usual seat by Rachel, who's sitting there stifling yawns into her elbow. Nathan slips in right as the bell goes off, as usual, and gives Victoria a little nod. Mr. Jefferson wastes no time greeting the class before announcing the new assignment.  
  
"It's a partnered project," he says, and when some students begin groaning, he adds, "there's no writing involved, so relax. We're just taking photos. I'll be pairing you off— you'll serve as photographer for your partner, and then swap to become model. I want you guys collaborating to try to mimic the exact same style in one another's photos. In other words, I want to look at the pictures you hand in of one another and be convinced that they were taken by the same person."  
  
Victoria already doesn't like the sound of that — she has a very specific style that she doesn't like changing — but she thinks that maybe her bad mood is because of the humiliation she'd suffered this morning, and she's willing to give it a shot. A shot, that is, until Mr. Jefferson goes through the list of partners and says, "Victoria and Rachel."  
  
"Oh, fuck no," she hisses under her breath. Next to her, Rachel laughs. Victoria rounds on her. "What's so funny, Miss Budget Kate Moss?"  
  
"It's nothing!" says Rachel. "Honestly, I'd love it if you'd take my picture. We could make magic, y'know." There's something playful in her tone, and she grins.  
  
Mr. Jefferson hasn't failed to notice that they're whispering at one another. "Is there an issue, Victoria?" he calls out. He looks her right in the eyes. Victoria sits up straight.  
  
"May I request a swap?" she asks.  
  
There's a somewhat awkward silence in the room, a sort of shock, like the other students can't believe that someone has had the nerve to ask for a swap right in front of everyone. But Victoria is not like other students. She sees no reason to defuse herself. It's for the best that everyone should know where she stands with them.  
  
Mr. Jefferson looks back down at his list. "...Alright," he says slowly. "That's fine, if it's okay with Rachel."  
  
Victoria turns to look at her. Rachel is giving Mr. Jefferson a dazzling smile. "Totally," she says, sweeping her fingers through her hair as she parts it over one shoulder. She doesn't seem insulted at all.  
  
"Then you'll be with Evan, Victoria," says Mr. Jefferson, scratching a pen over the list, "and Rachel will be partnered with Nathan." At this announcement, Rachel directs her smile at Nathan across the room. Victoria watches as he looks at her somewhat nervously and then out of the window. When Mr. Jefferson is finished announcing partners, Rachel gets up to join Nathan, dragging her chair over to his desk, where she engages him in quiet conversation. Within minutes, she has him laughing and smiling.  
  
Oh. It feels like Victoria has been hit in the stomach. She can hardly hear anything that Evan is trying to say to her as she looks at Rachel sitting with her... with... with Nathan. _Wait,_ she thinks, almost says aloud, and then, _Fuck._

   
  


Nathan is nearly impossible to get a hold of over the next few days, even though Victoria sees him everywhere. He's in class, and he's around the dorms, and he's on campus, but it's with his camera in his hands and Rachel at his side. Victoria passes them between classes and on breaks and after school, where they seem to be more engaged in the assignment than any other pair. They're certainly working harder than Victoria and Evan, at least; her partner is talented, but he's pretentious, and she allows him about half an hour of her time every second day. She spends more time watching Nathan and Rachel work on their project than she does on her own.  
  
She sees them laughing together after school, Rachel posing on the bleachers and Nathan trying to get a good frame on her, but whatever she's saying is funny enough that he keeps screwing up the shot. Victoria twists the strap on her purse and considers one of a thousand different ways she could interrupt them, but she doesn't try to make an attempt.  
  
"You going to stop creeping on them at some point?" Taylor asks her, and she sounds playful, but Victoria can see through it; Taylor's exasperated. She can't entirely blame her.  
  
"I'm not _creeping_ ," says Victoria sourly.  
  
"You worried about Nate?" Taylor asks softly. "'Cause everyone says Rachel's, like, _way_ slutty? You really think he's the type to dwell on heartbreak? Like, he'll be fine, Vic."  
  
"He doesn't—" she sputters, turning to Taylor, horror churning her stomach. No fucking way. "He doesn't _like_ her. Holy shit, T, are you fucking retarded?"  
  
Taylor looks startled and hurt. "I didn't mean—"  
  
"You didn't _mean_ anything," repeats Victoria. Taylor is a pitifully easy target, a soft one, a girl that's been willing to take every awful little thing Victoria has ever hurled at her just to maintain her friendship. Victoria knows it, and she doesn't always take advantage of it, but right now, she can't stand the idea of letting Taylor widen her insecurities, whether she means to or not. There is a hierarchy between them. " _Think_ before you run your mouth, okay?"  
  
"Okay," says Taylor quietly. "I'm sorry."  
  
" _What_ ever," says Victoria. She turns her attention back to Rachel and Nathan. Rachel is standing on the bleachers, her long legs bare in the cool fall sun. There's a tattoo of a dragon winding up one calf that Victoria notices for the first time. She tells herself that it looks trashy. She tells herself that Nathan is thinking the same thing as she watches him reach out to touch it. 

   
  


Victoria is talented and beautiful and smart and well bred. By typical standards, she has everything in the world going for her. Technically.  
  
Mr. Jefferson still doesn't look at her the way he looks at Rachel. She hasn't liked Rachel from the beginning, but when she walks in on them after class one day, when she sees Mr. Jefferson reach out towards Rachel and tuck her hair behind her ear for her, she decides that it really is complete hatred, that her first impression of Rachel had been the right one. She's seen something she shouldn't, she _knows_ it, and she should say something, but she's paralyzed by the vitriol that chokes her. Instead, that incident just seems to illuminate more and more moments just like it, opening her eyes to the things she'd been willfully ignoring: Rachel ever present at the Vortex Club parties, talking to Mr. Jefferson in the corners. Rachel helping him carry his professional equipment across campus, something he's never allowed any other student to do. Rachel bringing him coffee in the mornings, their hands touching over the cup. Rachel calling him _Mark_ , like it slips out completely naturally.  
  
Rachel's nail polish is always chipped, and her clothes look like the wardrobe of a failed grunge rocker, but Mr. Jefferson still looks at her like he can't quite believe that she is real. It makes Victoria want to scream.  
  
Rachel's name isn't the one that keeps showing up in bathroom graffiti and on the brick buildings, but it _should_ be. **victoria u insecure fuck face bitch** , says a stall door in gently looping cursive. Victoria sees it, and most of her knows, right away, that it can't be Rachel's doing. But that doesn't stop her from retaliating as if it is. **SLUT** , she writes all over the front of Rachel's locker in thick black marker. When Rachel sees it the next day, she just rolls her eyes, retrieves her books, and moves on her way. Victoria starts scrawling other things; it doesn't matter if what she writes is true or not, because it gets people whispering. But she doesn't stop there. It's as if she'll never be able to do enough to purge the taste of Rachel from her system.  
  
Victoria removes her from the Vortex VIP list; she reappears on it somehow. She slips into Rachel's dorm room when she's away and throws all of her clothes out into the hall; Rachel only picks each item up, one by one, and folds them back up right out there in the hallway, not even remotely embarrassed. She starts a rumor that Rachel is screwing the school janitor, and when she brings it up to her in her sweetest voice, inquiring if it is true, Rachel only laughs hysterically, as if it's a joke that she's happy to be in on.  
  
But the worst part of any of it might be that Nathan's photos of Rachel turn out to be beautiful. The first real conversation they have since the assignment started is right around Victoria's birthday. She waits for him to say something about it, but all Nathan wants to do is show her his new prints.  
  
They're monochromatic, like all of the photos he's been taking since the start of the school year, but there's a bright, blinding energy to them. Rachel is prismatic in every single one, looking into the eye of Nathan's camera like it's all she's ever known. They're better than any of the photos Victoria's ever taken. They might be the best photos _Nathan_ has ever taken. He seems to think so, too.  
  
"What do you think?" he asks her.  
  
_They're okay_ , she wants to lie, but she can't make herself do it. Instead, she says, "What are you doing this weekend?"  
  
"What?" He tears his eyes away from the photos to look at her.  
  
She's aching again. It's a burning in her stomach, almost like she's forgotten to eat, or like she's hungover. She thinks about how Nathan is slowly moving beyond her grasp. She thinks about how Mark Jefferson was never in it to begin with.  
  
Victoria looks again at the photos of Rachel Amber, at her enigmatic face in greyscale. How is it that Rachel has all the things that Victoria wants without even trying for them?  
  
"It's my birthday on Wednesday," she tells Nathan.  
  
His expression is cloudy. "I know that," he says. "What are you— I mean, are you planning to—"  
  
She shoves her cell phone into her purse and stands. "No," she cuts him off. "I think I'm gonna save all that energy for the Vortex pre-holiday party."  
  
"You're turning eighteen," says Nathan. "And you don't want to throw a party?"  
  
Victoria makes herself turn her back on him, because that's the only way she'll be able to say what she wants to say. "What," she says, loud enough that he can hear it even as she walks away, "is the fucking point?"

   
  


Courtney tells her that she needs to stop lashing out at people during a last minute meeting for the pre-holiday party planning, that everyone's noticed that she's been in a bad mood lately and they're all too afraid to tell her. That's Courtney's mistake. Victoria leaves her with coffee soaking her clothes to her body and matting her hair to her face before deciding that she's had enough and wants to go back to her room for the evening.  
  
There's a layer of freezing rain on campus as December approaches, and despite two layers of wool tights, Victoria is shivering. She's so angry that she's tuned out to everything happening around her, but once she's near the dorms, it's impossible not to overhear the shouting.  
  
It's Nathan's voice.  
  
"Well, fucking _forget_ it!"  
  
The corresponding voice takes Victoria a moment to identify. " _Stop_ raising your voice. Now."  
  
" _Fuck_ you."  
  
"Really, Nathan? Can you at least try putting in some effort to conduct yourself with a little more propriety?"  
  
_Oh,_ she realizes with some shock. _Mr. Jefferson._ She peers around the corner and confirms her guess: Mr. Jefferson is standing there in his black coat, looking at Nathan with the same sort of expression he uses when someone says something particularly stupid in class.  
  
"I'm dropping your class," says Nathan. He's shifting his weight from foot to foot, like a fighter readying himself for the ring.  
  
"I don't care if you're not doing the actual classwork," says Mr. Jefferson. "So drop it. That's fine. When you're done with this little meltdown, we'll talk it over, okay? Just call me. You know the line's always open for you."  
  
Victoria has no idea what the hell is going on. She watches as Nathan rolls his shoulders, quivering and twitching, before he rounds off into the dorms, practically sprinting. Mr. Jefferson watches him go, and then he turns. He's around the corner before Victoria can string her thoughts together enough to figure out how to hide or look like she hadn't just been eavesdropping.  
  
But Mr. Jefferson doesn't seem surprised to see her, nor does he seem to be angry, even though he surely knows that she'd heard something. He even spares her the need to ask about it, sighing as he says, "I'm sorry you heard that, Victoria," and then, "Nathan's performance has been... well, not good."  
  
That's not exactly what she'd expected to hear. Victoria thinks about the photos of Rachel that Nathan had composed for the last assignment, suddenly feeling extremely defensive of him, even though she doesn't know where she stands with him right now. "I _really_ hate to admit it, but those photos he did of Rachel were, like, incredible."  
  
"He has immense talent," agrees Mr. Jefferson, "but that talent will take him nowhere but down if he can't learn to focus."  
  
Strangely, Victoria is reminded of Sean Prescott. She remembers talking to him before meeting Mr. Jefferson for that first time three years ago and being told _If only Nathan had your focus. Talent is nothing without drive._ "He hates being told what to do," she says finally, thinking that the criticism is what has made Nathan snap. "He really hates it."  
  
"I'm certain he'll get it together eventually," says Mr. Jefferson calmly. "Now, please excuse me."  
  
Victoria heads to the boys' dormitory instead of her own once she parts ways with Mr. Jefferson. She stands at Nathan's door and knocks. There is no response, but she can hear the hum of the projector inside. She knocks again and waits a few minutes. He never answers.

   
  


Nathan isn't in Mr. Jefferson's class the next day, which makes it hard for Victoria to concentrate; she spends the whole time looking towards the door, expecting to see him slink in late. She deliberately refrains from looking towards Rachel, who she thinks tries to get her attention at some point, but soon gives up. She texts him once class has let out.  
  
_you weren't in class today_  
  
The message shows up as read, but he doesn't reply. Victoria finds him later, though, sitting out by the fountain during the lunch break. He's got his camera in his hands, and he's scrolling through photos on the preview screen.  
  
"Hey," she says quietly. Nathan gives her a quick look.  
  
"I dropped it," says Nathan, instead of greeting her.  
  
She doesn't have to ask what. She cautiously moves closer, pressing her hip to his, and looks down into his camera, as well. He's paused on a photo of a rat suspended in formaldehyde. She wants so badly to get inside of his head. Would Rachel know what to do here? Would Rachel know what to say? _**Fuck** Rachel Amber_ , she thinks spitefully. She's not here.  
  
"Why? You're the best photographer in that class," she says, not understanding and afraid that she might never get it. "In, like, the whole fucking school, probably."  
  
"Don't worry about it," he says bluntly. "You should go get ready for Holly Night."  
  
She'd nearly forgotten that the last big Vortex Club bash before the holiday break is tonight. "Am I going to see you there?" she asks. For the first time, she notices that Nathan is shaking— little shocks that have his whole body humming.  
  
Nathan flicks his camera off. It takes a few tries with his twitching fingers. "I don't know," he says. "You can tell everyone that I'm not feeling well."  
  
His eyes are a little watery. Victoria reaches out for him, tries to put an arm around his shoulders.  
  
"Don't," he rasps, pulling away, and he's standing, out of her reach yet again. " _Don't._ I have to — fuck — I'm sorry. I'll see you later, okay?"  
  
_Will you?_ wonders Victoria as she watches him go.

   
  


It's two in the morning by the time Victoria staggers back to her dorm room, completely hammered. The mistletoe aspect of the party had been a hit with almost everyone; she'd spent most of the night turning down Zachary's advances and then regretting it a little when she'd seen him turn towards Juliet, even though she knows she wouldn't have the confidence or courage or desire to try to hook up with him, anyway. After that, she'd mostly just let her eyes roam towards the girls; there's a disproportionately high number of pretty girls at Blackwell, soft mouths and hair and eyes, and if Victoria were less focused on her reputation, if she were less afraid of herself and of her desires, she might pursue one of them instead. But not now. She doesn't have the time or the courage for any of that shit.  
  
Courtney had walked with her and gotten her as far as the doors before she had turned back around for the party, but Victoria knows where she's going, at least. She uses the light on her cell phone to navigate her way down the dark halls, one careful foot in front of the other, walking slow to compensate for how inebriated she is. When she gets to her door, there's already someone waiting in front of it; Victoria thinks at first that it's her drunken imagination, but when she shines her cell phone onto the figure and sees who it is, a cold front rolls through her, rendering her sober.  
  
"Hey," says Rachel. For once, she's not smiling. She looks worried. "Can we talk?"  
  
"No offense," says Victoria sharply, too tired and stressed out and smashed to try to be anything but brutal with her, "but I hate your guts, so get the fuck away from my door."  
  
"It won't be long. I want to get back to my dorm, too. Just give me one minute," says Rachel. She looks anxious. She's not moving. Victoria's patience has already hit a wall. She reaches out and shoves at Rachel's shoulder.  
  
"Fucking _move_ before you start spreading your STDs into the place where I sleep, okay?" she snarls.  
  
"I'm—" Rachel starts, side stepping another attempt by Victoria to shove her, "I'm worried about Nate."  
  
Victoria freezes. She looks into Rachel's plaintive face and expects her to laugh. She isn't. She's never spoken about Nathan to Rachel before, and part of her wants to say, _How fucking dare you call him Nate?_ Instead, she just stands there, staring.  
  
"I'm worried he's going to do something to... to hurt himself," says Rachel slowly. She's obviously picking her words carefully, searching Victoria's face for signs of aggression, which she should be finding all over. "I thought maybe you could—"  
  
" _Wow!_ " Victoria bursts out, and suddenly it's _hilarious_ , it's the funniest fucking thing in the world, and she can't stop laughing. She drops her purse and runs a hand into her short hair and laughs loud enough that it echoes in the dark hall. "Holy fuck! _You're_ telling _me_ how to look out for _my_ best friend!"  
  
Rachel looks hurt. Victoria's never seen her look that way before. It only makes her laugh harder.  
  
If only Rachel knew how absurd the request seems. If only Rachel knew how many hours Victoria has spent watching her with Nathan, wondering what it is in her that makes Nathan laugh so easily, that makes him open up, that unlocks his potential as an artist.  
  
Victoria doesn't have any of the answers, but maybe, she realizes, maybe she's thought wrong all this time, and Rachel hasn't had them, either. She feels so satisfied with this realization that she manages to forget, for the moment, the conclusion its path shadows: that Nathan has become completely unreachable.  
  
"I don't need your help, Rachel," says Victoria once she's forced the laughter under control. She's drunk and she's deeply unhappy and she's completely lost at this school, but Rachel's no better than she is. She's no fucking better. "And neither does Nate, okay? Now, fuck off, gutterslut."  
  
This time, Rachel moves. Victoria picks her bag up off of the floor and digs her room key out of it. She doesn't expect Rachel to allow her to have the last word, but she does. She is rapidly realizing that it's not nearly as satisfying as it should be.  
  
Rachel is still standing out there by the time Victoria slams the door shut. The sad expression on her face stays in her thoughts even long after the steps fade towards the room at the end of the hall.


	4. stain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The latter half of Nathan and Victoria's first year at Blackwell. This chapter is a little longer than the ones before it, and that's after I condensed it a little. Whoops. Please bear with me! Hopefully it's worth it.
> 
> So, this is the penultimate chapter of this fic. I'm hoping to have the final part (the part that actually follows along with game events!) complete and posted fairly soon, but we'll see. Thank you so much to everyone that's been reading along and sharing your thoughts so far; it means a lot to me. 
> 
> Heads up on the 'suicide attempt' warning in the tags— it applies to this chapter.

Victoria spends the last day of the semester trying to convince Taylor to go back home for the break. She's not sure how many hours she's been sitting in Taylor's dorm room with her, but Courtney has just gotten up to head out on the third latte run of the day, so she figures that she must be heading on seven or eight. They keep winding back to the same conversation.  
  
"Why _bother_?" Taylor sniffs and sucks in a breath. "So much for Christmas."  
  
"Oh, for fuck's sake, T," Victoria snaps. "It's not like your mother got sick on _purpose_ just to ruin your break."  
  
"I _know_ that!" Taylor protests, and her eyes water anew. Victoria doesn't soften; Taylor needs her to be hard right now.  
  
"Then if you know it, get it _together_." Her voice whips out harsh. "You can finish crying _now_ , so she doesn't have to see it when you're there. Don't be fucking selfish. That's _not_ what she needs out of you."  
  
Taylor looks at her, and then nods slowly. Her eyes are red, and her makeup is running; Victoria wants to reach over and wipe it away from her, almost as much as she wants to put her arms around her friend and stroke her hair. It's a rare moment of fondness for her, but Victoria knows she's been a pretty absent friend lately. The semester's finals have done a better job of sapping her energy than even the heavy rain that has begun to fall outside, rendering the entire bay in shadow and greyscale.  
  
It hasn't just been the studying and the dark weather, though. It all keeps coming back to Nathan in her head. He's been an enigma without a cipher.  
  
"You're right," Taylor says. "You're always right, Vic. I just— I'm _scared_ to see her like that."  
  
Victoria runs a fingernail over the houndstooth pattern in her skirt and avoids Taylor's attempts at eye contact. "I'll be in touch, you know. It's not like you'll be stuck there."  
  
"Really? I can come stay with you if I have to?" Taylor looks a little hopeful.  
  
Victoria thinks about the conversation — and then argument — she'd held with her mother a few days ago.  
  
_Don't come home_.  
  
"No," she says finally. "You'd have to come back here."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"'Cause I'm staying here for the break, dumbass," says Victoria, trying to sound like this is a completely normal decision. When Taylor stares at her, she adds, irritably, "Everything I own is here. And Mr. Jefferson's letting me get a head start on next semester's work."  
  
Taylor doesn't even take time to consider this explanation before nodding. She reaches out to put a hand against Victoria's forearm. "Good luck," she says sincerely, and Victoria remembers why she calls her _Sweet-T_. "To both of us."  
  
"Come here," says Victoria quietly. She holds an arm out to Taylor, who looks a little surprised, but then her face glows. She leans into Victoria's side, and they sit together like that for a while, just holding one another. Victoria too often forgets how easy it is to be friends with Taylor and just how little she reconsiders their relationship. Taylor might have her flaws, but the one thing she's always been is steady. That's why it's okay to go soft for her sometimes, even if it's just a few minutes.  
  
By the time Courtney comes back with the new latte order, Taylor's tears have dried, and Victoria's drink hasn't even cooled before both of her friends have grabbed their bags and are on their ways home. She sees them off from the school parking lot, waving as Taylor takes off down the wet roads.  
  
As an abandoned place, Blackwell takes on an eerie, unreal quality. There's something harsh and unwelcoming about the massive brick buildings when there's no one moving in and out of them. The quiet on the campus makes Victoria feel paranoid as she walks back to the dormitory, and she thinks of the upcoming twelve days alone in her room with a dread that feels existential.  
  
_Maybe I'll make a few day trips to Portland,_ she thinks to herself. _Or even Seattle._ Not for her parents' gallery, but she might be able to get some nice photos of the city and the holiday lights. Victoria is thinking about how she'll get herself there when she opens her door and sees Nathan sprawled out on her couch, sleeping. She startles and drops her coat to the carpet. Nathan opens his eyes with a groan, and then he's squinting at her, jerking his head over to look out the window.  
  
"Holy fuck, it's dark out already?" He sits up and tries to orient himself. Victoria picks her damp coat off of the floor and carefully slips off her shoes without a word. She has no idea why Nathan is in her room, but she has to admit to herself that while he's really the last person she'd expected to see in here, it's not as though she isn't glad to see him.  
  
Nathan is detached at best and as distant as the fucking moon at worst; he's felt a lot closer to the latter lately. Victoria can't recall the last time they'd had a real conversation; she'd made an attempt, sometime after Rachel Amber had brought her 'concerns' up a few weeks ago, but Nathan had dismissed her. Since then, he hasn't been attending classes, and Victoria has been standing at the mouth of the chasm that has opened up between them. She feels like she's perpetually on the verge of falling right into it, but she keeps herself there anyway, toes balanced at the edge, hands cupped over her mouth, always shouting for him but only getting her own echo in response.  
  
"What are you doing here?" It comes out harsher than Victoria intends. "Everyone else has already gone home."  
  
"I wanted to ask if you would come," says Nathan, shrugging. "I had to find out before I left."  
  
"Come where?" Victoria asks, and then, realizing: "How did you know I was going to be staying?"  
  
"I thought you were home already. I called there."  
  
Victoria cringes, wondering what Nathan has learned from her mother or father, but she swallows her embarrassment and tells herself that her mother would have had a perfectly workable excuse prepared. "Okay, but where are you asking me to go?"  
  
"With me. To the Prescott manor."  
  
It's always been strange to her, how Nathan calls it _the Prescott manor_ or _the estate_ , like it's just one entry on a list of places that also includes _the lighthouse_ and _the diner_ , like a stop on a tour. Like it's not the home he grew up in. But Victoria thinks she gets that: she finds herself referring to the Chase Space in the exact same way. And she's _been_ there, to the Prescott estate, to its sterile halls and featureless rooms. Her impression of it has always been that it's never felt _lived_ in.  
  
She thinks of Nathan going back there for Christmas, just him and his parents, Kristine somewhere far away, and she thinks of herself, of the cold nights with her space heater in her dorm room. If Nathan's reasons for asking are selfish, so are Victoria's reasons for accepting. But they've always functioned that way, siphoning the guilt off of one another.  
  
She nods.

   
  


There's an aseptic quality to Nathan's bedroom back in the manor. All of the things Victoria had once found familiar in it — the posters, the DVDs, the carefully arranged books and folders — have all been rerouted to his gloomy dorm in Blackwell, which he's only ever let her glimpse from the doorway. The room that remains is stripped white walls and stiff sheets. When Victoria looks around it, she thinks that, were she a stranger, she might never have guessed that the Prescotts ever had a son in their home.  
  
"Where's your father?" She hasn't failed to notice that the home is devoid of any other presence.  
  
"He'll be back tomorrow," says Nathan, and his shoulders jolt in what has to be a shrug, but Victoria isn't entirely sure.  
  
They blast the heating, pick through the contents of Sean Prescott's wine cellar, and drape themselves on the white chaise in his office, where, for the first time in months, they talk the way they used to before starting at Blackwell Academy. Maybe it's the fact that they're not at the school that does it. The alcohol gets Victoria going — it always does, and she knows that's probably not a good thing — and soon she's laughing and warm, and Nathan seems less closed off and more like the boy she'd met seven years ago, the one she'd wanted so badly to untangle. They talk about their classes, about their peers, about the Vortex Club, about the asshole that's head of security.  
  
And, eventually, they talk about Rachel Amber, because Victoria can't help it; it just bursts out of her, aided by the wine. She immediately regrets asking the moment it comes out of her mouth, but Nathan doesn't recoil.  
  
"Rachel?" he repeats, looking at her with a blank expression, before he laughs. "She's crazy."  
  
Victoria presses her knees into his thigh, inching closer. _Crazy_ could be anything, especially from Nathan, who uses the term like it's invariably a compliment and an insult. "No, really," she insists, trying not to sound irritated. "What's with her?" She nearly tips her glass of Masseto over; it sloshes up over her hand, and she hastily lets it drip over her tights, not the chaise.  
  
"I told you. She's crazy." Nathan reaches out to take the glass from her, his hand closing on top of hers. His palm feels dry and chapped where it's cupping her knuckles. She doesn't let go of the glass; for whatever reason, he just keeps his hand there. "She wants to be a model," he finally adds, looking like he has to think about it.  
  
She exhales. "Tell me something I don't know about her."  
  
"Drugs," says Nathan vaguely.  
  
"Drugs?" Victoria lifts her gaze from where she's looking at Nathan's fingers locked on top of hers. His expression makes it look like his head is somewhere far away again.  
  
"She's got something going on with Frank. She totally denied it until I told her I'd seen them together. I didn't know they even knew each other until we did, uh, Jefferson's project together." Nathan's face clouds over. "Pretty sure they're fucking."  
  
That makes every muscle in her body tense up. _They're fucking._ She's hoping that it's just poor wording. "Excuse me?"  
  
Nathan gives her a strange look, and he lets go of her hand. "What?"  
  
" _Who_ is she fucking?" Victoria snaps. She manages to sound composed — if angry — even though she feels completely sick to her stomach.  
  
"Frank." Nathan is still looking at her like she's kicked him in the face for no reason, but relief overwhelms her when he makes the clarification. Right. Frank. Of course it's Frank. There's no way Rachel is sleeping with Mr.— with _Mark_. Never mind all the times Victoria has seen them together outside of classes and off of school hours. Never mind that the way he looks at Rachel is a direct mirror of the way Victoria wishes he'd look at her. But Rachel is sleeping with Frank Bowers. How _appropriate_.  
  
This revelation makes her feel both relieved and superior. Victoria holds no affection whatsoever for Nathan's brusque, downright frightening supplier. He lives in a filthy RV with nothing but his dog for company and looks like he showers maybe twice a month. Rachel is perfectly suited to Frank, Victoria thinks. They're both trash.  
  
"So she's screwing Frank," says Victoria, unable to suppress the delight that flows out of her like she's purging a toxin from her body. " _Please_ tell me she sucks dick for drugs. That would make my fucking _year_."  
  
"I don't know." Nathan shakes his head. "I wasn't gonna ask her anything like that. We don't really talk about that stuff."  
  
The way he says it, _we_ , leaches the joy out of her. She wonders if it's because she's getting drunk, or if it's because the concept of _Nathan and Rachel_ and not _Nathan and Victoria_ feels like enough to put a stop to her heart. She swings her legs over the side of the chaise and sits up a little straighter. "Oh," she says, flat. She deliberately wedges her glass between her knees so that she has her hands free to use air quotes for the rest of her sentence: "What do ' _we_ ' talk about?"  
  
"Why do you—" Nathan looks, for a moment, like he's going to get angry. Victoria is used to his anger, the utter uninhibited heat of it. There's a kind of glory in the way Nathan expresses his fury, because it's so completely _consuming_ , so destructive and bright, licking out of him like a flame. But that rage always snuffs itself out, and Nathan slumps where he's sitting. "I got _nothing_ , okay? I got nothing with Rachel."  
  
He says it like it's an afterthought, like it's an expression of loss, and Victoria is angry. She's angry at Nathan for sounding that way; she's angry at herself for letting it matter. She sets her glass down on Sean Prescott's glossy blackwood desk.  
  
"Excuse me," she says, even though they're in Nathan's home. Even though she's not sure where she's excusing herself to. She decides to wander. Nathan lets her. She doesn't hear the door to the study open again after she leaves.

   
  


There's a darkroom in the basement of the Prescott manor. Victoria has known about it for years. Sometimes she and Nathan work side by side over the chemical batches down here in the red light in complete silence, recognizing that there is something sacred about the darkness and about the process of creation. Victoria's parents had come up with a hundred different reasons as to why they could not build one in their home for her, and so when she had first seen the concessions that Sean Prescott had made for his son's hobby, it had invoked a sick, burning envy inside of her. But she'd come to see that maybe this was the only kind thing that he had ever done for Nathan, that his altruism is as stark as the black walls down here, and she had stopped coveting it a long time ago.  
  
Outside of the revolving cylindrical door that leads to the darkroom is a cache of equipment that even Victoria would call exorbitant. Down here Nathan keeps lenses and lighting rigs, filters and film, reflectors and strobes. There's just so much of it, an unbelievable variety of expensive tech, and yet the only thing Victoria has ever seen Nathan with on campus is his monochrome camera. She feels unsettled and strangely unhappy down in the basement surrounded by Nathan's abandoned possessions.  
  
There is also an industrial printer pressed into a corner. Victoria walks towards it and smooths her hands over the surface, like she's feeling out the lid of a piano. He mother has one a lot like this in her office, but even hers isn't as nice as the Prescotts'. She hooks her hands beneath the lid and tugs it up to examine the scanning surface. There's a print already pressed face down on the glass. Victoria reaches for it without thinking, sliding a fingernail beneath a corner to peel it up and flip it over.  
  
"Oh," she says aloud.  
  
It's one of the photos of Rachel that Nathan had taken two months ago. She's sitting by the shore, her long legs crossed in front of her. She's got her head canted to one side, and a hand raised to her chin, like she's about to start laughing. The photo looks like it could form the spearhead of some fast fashion retailer's summer campaign, but that's not what Victoria is looking at. She's looking at the way Rachel is staring not into the camera but _past_ it. She's smiling for the person taking her photo. She's smiling for Nathan.  
  
_Why?_ she thinks, willing herself not to implode, telling herself to understand, for comprehension to strike her and make it all okay. But she doesn't understand at all.  
  
Victoria doesn't want to have to keep looking at it. She takes the photo, one corner in each hand, and _pulls_. The paper is laminated, and it won't go easily, but eventually, it shreds right down the middle.  
  
Anything will tear under enough pressure.  
  
She splits those halves into four, and those pieces into eight, and those into unidentifiable little parts, and then she opens her hand and lets them rain down into the wastebasket.  
  
There's a sound behind her. Victoria turns. Nathan is standing there, staring at her. He looks at the paper scattered everywhere and still clutched in her hand. He looks to the scanner. He seems to put it together.  
  
"Did you just...?" he finally manages.  
  
"I guess," she says, with difficulty, "we need to talk about this."

   
  


It's freezing in Nathan's room with the window cracked open to dilute the smoke, and Victoria feels gross and self conscious sitting on the sill with no makeup on, but it's the only way she can get away with smoking inside the manor. She doesn't even _enjoy_ it any more; she's not sure why she still does it, beyond a vague compulsion to light up whenever she's bored or annoyed or upset— which, lately, feels like all the time.  
  
She's waiting for Nathan to talk, but he's totally silent, sitting on his bed with his eyes glued to his phone. Now and then his thumbs start flying; he's obviously talking to someone who's jumping on his replies as fast as he is on theirs. Victoria wants to snatch the phone out of his hands and throw it out of the window, but she knows that's not going to accomplish anything, so she just crushes her cigarette in her fingers and inhales hard.  
  
When Nathan _does_ speak, she jerks her head around at the sound of it, and finds that he's already staring right at her when she turns to look.  
  
"You know you're like my only friend, right?" he says. His voice is low and dull.  
  
Victoria lowers her eyes. Hearing it from him is different than just telling herself. She's always doubting Nathan. Doubting his reliability, his intentions, his reasons for everything. She's not sure why, when his trust in her never seems to waver or break. He's strangely naive in that way. Victoria hasn't exactly been the greatest friend, even if he hasn't been, either, and yet here he is. Maybe it had been the thought of that loyalty transferring to Rachel that had hurt so much.  
  
She's not sure where trusting Nathan ends and where still needing him anyway begins. Victoria hates that about herself, that she's not sure if she's ever learned how to be a good friend. She's not sure if _friend_ is how she even feels about Nathan. It's not as though Taylor or Hayden, or, fuck, _anyone,_ has ever made her feel this confused.  
  
"Yeah." Victoria throws her half spent cigarette out of the window and closes it. The chill in the room immediately eases. She stares at Nathan uncertainly.  
  
"Come here." Nathan sets his phone down by his thigh and tips his head towards the empty spot beside him. Victoria picks herself up carefully and sits down with him on the bed.  
  
There's something about this that makes her feel anxious. She's been in Nathan's room before — not the one at Blackwell, but here — and he's been in hers, but she's never sat on his bed with him before. It feels intimate in a way she's not used to. It's never like this with Taylor or Courtney or anyone else, sitting around scrolling through Facebook or gossiping. This is quiet, tense. Close. Too close.  
  
Nathan's different. He's always been different.  
  
"You never looked at me different once you— you know. Once you saw," Nathan says, but he stops there, looking like he's trying to figure out how to end that sentence, before he decides on, "everything."  
  
Hadn't she? Victoria wants to tell him that she's never been certain about him. That she's seen things that have scared her, that she's not sure she'll ever truly understand him even though she thinks she's still miles ahead of any of their other friends. But maybe it's all in the fact that she's _stayed_. She forces a nod. She's not used to being soft like this, and half of her is recoiling from this entire conversation, from the things Nathan threatens to lay out in it.  
  
"Not like everyone else." Nathan's shoulders twitch. He looks so tired. The shadows under his eyes are dark and heavy enough to look like bruises. The only thing that convinces her that they're not is that there's no swelling.  
  
"I'm just trying to understand," says Victoria slowly, forcing the words out. She wishes she could come up with the perfect thing to say. Something that will answer every question she has about Nathan and express every feeling she's too wary to pick apart inside of herself.  
  
"I know," says Nathan softly, and his voice is gentler than she has ever heard it, and now, _now_ , looking into the storm blue of his eyes, she remembers why she stays. "Thanks."  
  
The strange thing about Nathan is that he's always so hard, so defensive, so armored. But he turns soft seemingly effortlessly, opening himself to her with an ease that always catches Victoria off guard. She wishes she could be an open wound like him. The way he bleeds out makes her want to sink her fingers in.  
  
And maybe she can. Maybe he'll let her. She's not sure who leans forward first, only that it happens, and she's sure that she looks as scared as he does. His mouth is so close that she can feel the heat coming off of his lips.  
  
For a moment, Victoria _wants_. She just _wants_ , boundless and consuming, and that's bizarre, because Victoria has always been afraid of wanting, of the vulnerability that it entails. But it's that same want that triggers the doubt and the wild terror, the need to go back to the known and certain. Her body moves automatically. She reaches out, plants her hands against Nathan's chest, and pushes him away. Nathan goes easily; the moment she touches him he's flinching back like she's released him from a psychic hold.  
  
She can hear the cracks as the chasm between them widens.  
  
"I," she starts, her heart beating so fast and loud that she can't put her own thoughts together, "Maybe we should—"  
  
"You're right," says Nathan, and she's relieved even though she doesn't know what he's agreeing to because she's not sure what she was actually going to say. He gets up from the bed abruptly, shoving his phone into his pocket and grabbing his keys off of the desk. He's completely blank faced. "I'm tired. I have to go see Frank, anyway."  
  
Victoria watches him throw his coat on. He looks like he can't wait to leave. "Okay," she says, feeling small as she curls her fingers into the sheets. "I'll be here." It's not as though she has anywhere else to go.  
  
When he leaves, Victoria tells herself that she's glad she hadn't kissed him. She doesn't dwell on the fact that she wishes she had, anyway.

   
  


The first person Victoria runs into the next morning is not Nathan; it's Sean Prescott. She'd tried staying up for Nathan the night before, but after an hour, she'd been so exhausted that she'd dragged herself to the guest suite. In the morning, she'd knocked on Nathan's door, but after giving him a minute to answer and receiving no reply, she had decided to keep letting him sleep. She startles when she reaches the kitchen downstairs and finds his father in there, still suited, his briefcase and luggage next to him, like he's just gotten off of a flight. Prescott is making coffee and scrolling through his phone. He doesn't seem surprised to see her there.  
  
"So you'll be here for the holidays with us, Vicky?" he asks her in that same hard, direct tone she's become used to but no less intimidated by after so many years.  
  
"I guess," she says reluctantly, reaching for a glass so that she can get herself some water.  
  
"Oh, let me," says Prescott, taking it from her before she can protest. He pours the water for her and slides the glass back to her. He seems to be in a good enough mood, but Victoria knows better. Prescott is excellent at playing genial— just like her. "I hope there's nothing going on at home...?" he prompts.  
  
"No," she says quickly. She knows he could easily just call her parents up and find out, and she's not nearly smart enough to fool him, but her pride won't let her just concede like that.  
  
Prescott obviously sees right through it, but he's letting her have this one. "Why don't you do me a favor and call Nathan down so we can all have breakfast together?" he suggests.  
  
Victoria can't think of anything that she — or Nathan, for that matter — would like to do less than have toast with Sean Prescott first thing in the morning, but she nods, because even if she doesn't like the idea, she isn't stupid. She'll obey. "Of course," she says, and then she makes the trip back upstairs to Nathan's room, where she stands with a shoulder pressed to the door to call through it. "Nate?" she says. "Get up, asshole. Your dad's home."  
  
No reply.  
  
"Nate," she says again, louder, followed by a knock. She waits. Annoyed, she twists the knob and lets the door fall open a crack. The first thing she detects is a sickly smell in the room, which makes her pause. Something strange stirs in her. "Hey," she tries again, slipping through the door. "Nathan—"  
  
When she looks over to the bed, she sees that Nathan's slumped over in it, but something's not right. He's half off of the bed, and his eyes are open, but they're not focused or looking at anything. He's pale, almost blue.  
  
"What the fuck? Nathan!"  
  
Victoria runs to him. When she touches him, he's completely slack. He doesn't respond when she says his name. She puts her hands on his face and tries turning his head. It takes her a few moments to realize that he's still breathing, but it's terrifyingly slow and shallow. She waves her hands in front of his eyes frantically. She's never seen anything like this before. Sure, there's been mistakes at parties, scary ones — they've been busted for kids that get too stupid or too reckless with their alcohol, or can't handle ecstasy — but nothing like this before.  
  
She's not sure at what point she started crying, but it's making it hard to see. She drags Nathan back up onto the bed and then remembers, finally, that she isn't alone in the manor.  
  
"Mr. Prescott!" she screams. " _Mr. Prescott_!"  
  
There's no response for a moment or two, but then she hears faint steps, and they grow stronger and louder as Prescott ascends the stairs. By the time he rushes into the room, he's got his coat off and his sleeves rolled up, like the tone of her scream had let him know just what to be ready for.  
  
He doesn't even look shocked. He just elbows Victoria aside, his movements fast, practiced.  
  
" _Christ_ , Nathan, you did something _stupid_ again, didn't you?" he's hissing, his eyes hard and dark behind his glasses, his jaw set as sharp as a razor blade. Victoria watches numbly as he rolls Nathan roughly onto his side and forces his jaw open to reach inside with two fingers, checking if there's anything left in his mouth.  
  
It's like he's done this before. All of it.  
  
" _Well?_ " Prescott demands of her, and she only realizes that he's talking to _her_ now when he shoots her a look back over his shoulder, dragging her out of her state of numbness. " _What_ are you waiting for? Call 911!"  
  
He tosses his phone at her. She barely manages to catch it. It's a good thing that there's an _Emergency Call_ button, because her fingers are shaking too much to hit anything else accurately. Victoria isn't sure what exactly she says to the dispatcher. She knows that she stutters her way through the directions. She knows she tells them, no, she doesn't know what he took. She says, no, she's not sure how long he's been this way. She says, yes, he's breathing.  
  
Prescott sends her down to open the door for the paramedics. They ignore her completely as they head upstairs, and Victoria trails behind, feeling like it's her body they're working on up there.  
  
When they take him out on the stretcher, Victoria sees one of Nathan's arms hanging out over the side. He's wearing one of Rachel Amber's leather bracelets.

   
  


It's almost a day later, by the time she's settled back into her dorm at Blackwell to spend the rest of her break there anyway, that she gets news about Nathan. But it doesn't come from Nathan himself, whose phone she has texted incessantly for the past twenty three hours. It comes from his father.  
  
_He's in the hospital,_ Prescott writes, followed by, _He'll be fine._ And that's it. No details, no explanations, no invitations to visit. Victoria waits for a follow up text from Nathan, something to tell her that he's okay. When she doesn't get one, she starts wondering _what_ kind of hospital.  
  
She recalls, a couple of years ago, a week when Nathan had simply become unreachable. Not a single one of their mutual friends had known what had happened to him. When she had gotten in contact with Sean, concerned, he had simply told her that Nathan would be unavailable for a few days. All of their friends had assumed that he had been grounded somehow, and Victoria had automatically thought the same. She hadn't considered the alternative. The conclusion that's been the obvious one all along, so huge and apparent that it had actually blinded her, because she hadn't stepped back far enough to see it for what it was. What it _is_.  
  
Victoria thinks that she'll start to feel better once everyone is back and classes are in session again, but when she sees Nathan return on the last day of the break, she knows that her mood won't be lifting any time soon. Nathan acts like nothing has happened. She's starting to realize that Nathan is not a good actor.  
  
When he doesn't show up for the first class of the new semester, or _any_ of the classes she knows he's supposed to be in, she stops wanting to ask questions, apart from the one she asks when she drops by his room every evening: _Do you need anything?_  
  
He always says no.

   
  


Rachel picks the desk next to Victoria's in the new semester's photography class, although Victoria cannot, for her fucking life, figure out why. She even smiles at Victoria, as though she doesn't remember how badly their last conversation had gone. Victoria can't stop thinking about it— about how Rachel had been _right_. She tries her best to tune her out and pretend that she isn't there. For the first couple of weeks, it's almost manageable.  
  
She's about to head into Mr. Jefferson's room to see him between classes about something, but as she moves to head in, Rachel slips out, and Victoria freezes, suddenly gripped by the need to know what the fuck Rachel Amber is doing in there with her favorite teacher all the time. Rachel is the only one who makes an extended effort to see him outside of class time, aside from Victoria. She pays attention; she would _know_.  
  
"What is it?" These are the first words she's exchanged with Rachel since the incident outside of her dorm room before the break. "What are you always in there talking to him about?"  
  
Rachel cants her head to one side. "The fashion industry," she says. "He's worked with a lot of really successful models. Ones that became successful _because_ of him."  
  
"Oh, _whatever_ ," says Victoria irritably. "Like you're not just trying to slut it up in there. As though I — as though _everyone_ — can't see right through your wannabe shit."  
  
"I mean it," says Rachel. "We were talking about taking my headshots."  
  
Victoria cannot be hearing Rachel correctly. "I'm sorry?" she asks. It's not a question, nor is it sincere.  
  
"He said he would actually take some for me," says Rachel, her tone level. "Totally insane, right? I still can't believe it."  
  
"As— as if he would _ever_!" sputters Victoria. " _No_ fucking way!"  
  
"He volunteered."  
  
She refuses to believe that Rachel is going to have headshots shot by Mark Jefferson. _No_ goddamn way. He would never grant that kind of favor to a student. She's absolutely certain of that. He has nothing to gain from it, after all. No money, no status, no experience. Why should he even _bother_? It doesn't make any sense. But then why is her gut telling her that Rachel isn't lying?  
  
There is no way that she can keep standing here looking into Rachel's open, careful face. She's not going to take the bait and fall into the trap. She's _not._ It's not true. It's _not true._  
  
Victoria storms across the hallway, where Taylor and Courtney are huddled together, having heard everything. She's dizzy with jealousy, and it's hard to pin down her rage. "Did you _hear_ that? Can you fucking _believe_ it?! Getting fucking _headshots_ taken by Mark Jefferson! Like that would ever happen!"  
  
" _Right?_ " Taylor's making an equally affronted face. "There's, like, no chance. Like, what do you think she'd have to do to manage _that_? Talk about ultimate skank levels."  
  
"You know what I heard?" Courtney says, her eyes wide. Victoria and Taylor both look at her, and she leans in, glancing around as if she's savoring the moment. "I've heard that she is totally screwing Mr. J. _No_ joke."  
  
"Um, _ew?_ " says Taylor, repulsed. "If that's true, then, like, the remaining microscopic shreds of respect I had for her are _gone_. Right, Vic?"  
  
Victoria doesn't answer.  
  
"Right, Vic?" Taylor repeats when she realizes that she's not getting any affirmation, but Victoria isn't looking at her. She's staring at Courtney.  
  
"Who told you that?" she asks stiffly.  
  
"Zach and Juliet!" Courtney says, all gossip. "Juliet's pretty sure she saw them heading off in his car together after school once. And Zach's seen him, like, touch her waist, and she didn't even seem to care? And he was totally okay with it. It's, like, the way they look at each other? You just _know_. Now _everyone's_ sure that they're boning, and I bet they totally are, 'cause how _else_ do you think Rachel Amber could ever make it as a model? Gross."  
  
That's all she needs to hear; it's more than she'd _wanted_ to hear. _No._ Victoria breaks off and away from her friends to catch up to Rachel, who is already headed down the hallway. Rachel, whose bracelet is on Nathan's wrist, whose name is cupped in his mouth. Rachel, whose headshots Mark Jefferson will be taking. Rachel, who has everything, _everything_. Rachel, who is occupying every breathable space where Victoria's specters once roamed.  
  
Her long hair makes her an easy target. Doesn't Rachel know the first thing about self defense?  
  
Victoria takes a fistful and _yanks_. Rachel cries out; it's a sound that Victoria has never heard out of her before. She likes it, loves the way it lances through her and leaves her reeling. Rachel turns wildly. Her jabbing elbow barely misses Victoria's nose. "Let me go!"  
  
"So you think you can get what you want by spreading your legs, huh?" Victoria trills at her sweetly, although she's breathing unevenly as Rachel thrashes. "It's all you've got because you have no other talents, right?"  
  
Rachel wraps her hands around Victoria's wrist and tries pulling her off. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"  
  
"Oh, _whatever_ , slut!" Victoria is forced to let go, but she reaches out for Rachel's shirt. She doesn't know what's come over her; she just knows that she wants to sink her manicure into Rachel's beautiful face and peel it off like it's wallpaper. It feels like she's retching up every ugly feeling she's ever had about Rachel. About everyone. About herself. "Fucking a _teacher?_ No _wonder_ he's taking your fucking headshots!"  
  
Victoria waits for Rachel to deny it again, to spit the words back into her face like acid and tell her, no, she doesn't have a clue what the hell Victoria is saying to her, and, no, she's never slept with _any_ teacher, let alone Mark Jefferson. But instead Rachel just stares at her, long and hard, and then she turns angry. She gives Victoria a shove that sends her colliding into the lockers. The back of her head meets them with a painful thud that momentarily blinds her. She becomes abruptly aware that every other student in the hallway is staring, talking, cheering, that there are cameras and phones out, but all she can see and hear is Rachel.  
  
"You're insecure," Rachel says. Her voice wavers a little, like she's not used to any of this, but there's a deepening strength in it. "Because you crave attention so badly. So you can't _stand_ it when you think that someone else might be getting some. Is that it?"  
  
Victoria feels her cheeks darken. She launches herself at Rachel, who struggles to get her off.  
  
"And you can't even _admit_ it, because _then_ you'd be _wrong_ , for once, and you can't handle that, can you, Victoria? So you just keep getting worse, and worse, and everyone can see it. Even—"  
  
" _Don't_ fucking say it!" snarls Victoria, who already knows where Rachel is going with this and is helpless to stop it from getting there.  
  
"Even _Nathan_ sees it!"  
  
Victoria strikes Rachel across the face so hard that her hand comes away hurting, and a shock rolls up to her shoulder and turns it numb. It's worth it, though, to see Rachel go spilling onto the ground, disoriented. But it's not enough. She wants more. She wants to destroy her, to unravel her into separate parts, to take back her obsession. Victoria is almost on her when someone drags her back, yelling.  
  
"Stop!"  
  
She writhes like an animal, screaming to be let go. Whoever is holding her shakes her hard.  
  
" _Stop_ it!"  
  
The second exclamation stirs something in her head and cuts through the rage. Victoria looks up, twists her head around to see who has her.  
  
Nathan. He's looking down at her with a wild, desperate expression. He's freaked out. Something's scared him. It takes Victoria a second to realize that it's her.

   
  


Wells does not go easy on her. The meeting in his office has to be one of the most painful things that Victoria has ever sat through. He angrily instructs her to sit in one chair and puts Rachel in the other. When Victoria suggests that they meet with him separately, to privately tell their stories and perspectives on the incident to him, he tells her to shut up, point blank. She does.  
  
Nathan sits in the chair between the two of them, since he'd been there still holding onto her when Madsen had run up, shouting. The head of security himself stands gruffly by the bookcase, allotting each and every one of them equal glaring time. At least _he's_ fair, Victoria thinks.  
  
Rachel plays with her feather earring as she explains, calmly, that she had done nothing to provoke Victoria's aggression. Victoria interjects at what has to be every other word with her side of the story, which Wells seems to be extremely unimpressed by. The only part that nobody brings up is the rumor that Rachel is sleeping with Mark Jefferson. Rachel doesn't say anything about it, and neither does Victoria. She hates Rachel, but she doesn't want to drag Mr. Jefferson into it; he's still her idol, and his reputation matters to her, even if Rachel's doesn't.  
  
"We're looking at suspension," says Wells bluntly. "Seeing as this is your first strike... You will certainly be seeing it show up on your record, Miss Chase, at the very least."  
  
Panic grips her. There is no fucking way that she can have a suspension or a fight put on her record. Just imagining what her mother might have to say about that makes Victoria so sick she thinks she might have to excuse herself right then and there.  
  
"What about me?" Rachel asks.  
  
"You as well, Miss Amber. You _did_ hit back."  
  
Rachel looks sullen, as well, but Victoria can't even enjoy it. She's trying to tame her panic.  
  
"Hold on," says Nathan, the first words he's spoken since the perfunctory explanation of his role in breaking up the fight. He sits up a little straighter and stares Wells in the eyes. "I'm sure we can work this one out."  
  
Something in the way he says it makes Wells pause, and then, suddenly, his tune changes. He clears his throat. "Well, if you both promise me, sincerely, that this will not happen again..."  
  
Victoria has no idea what specifically has triggered this change of heart, but she has an idea. She's not stupid, so she nods immediately. "I promise," she says vehemently.  
  
"Okay," says Rachel, mollified.  
  
Wells excuses them all— except for Nathan. Madsen marches both Victoria and Rachel out into the hallway and tells them both to get the hell out of the area. Rachel doesn't have to be told twice; she's rushing away, chin held high, somehow still flawlessly gorgeous even with the pinkish tracks of Victoria's nails on her cheek. Victoria stays where she is, uncertain. Madsen barks for her to go again, and so she decides to wait out in the hallway until Nathan emerges.  
  
When he does, ten minutes later, he looks agitated. Victoria heads up to him.  
  
"You told him your dad would buy it off, right?" she says immediately, hushed. "You _really_ didn't have to, but thanks—"  
  
"Why did you do that?" Nathan demands, rounding on her.  
  
"What?" Startled, Victoria stops.  
  
"Stop messing with Rachel," Nathan says, and there is a kind of pain in his eyes.  
  
"Oh," says Victoria, and the cold settles over her again as she assumes the worst. " _Oh._ I get it. You're taking her side! You're really fucking doing that. _Wow._ "  
  
"No," says Nathan through grit teeth. "I mean that it's just going to put you in danger. Get you in trouble. Like it _just fucking did._ "  
  
That makes Victoria pause. The wording is strange. _Put you in danger._ But maybe that makes sense. Rachel is a junkie and a slut, right? A ladder climbing drug dealer's girlfriend. _Beneath_ her. Nathan's just looking out for her. Telling her to be careful. Maybe he's finally gotten the picture. Victoria looks down at his wrists. She doesn't see the shape of Rachel's bracelet beneath either of the cuffs.  
  
"Fine," she says softly. "I promise. Only because you asked."

   
  


But Rachel _does_ wind up suspended, even though Victoria confirms that Nathan has safely expunged the incident from her own record. She only knows that something has happened because Rachel stops showing up to Mr. Jefferson's class. She's never missed a single one before.  
  
Nathan is wan and he shakes in that nervous way of his when Victoria approaches him in the parking lot one afternoon. She hasn't even managed to light her cigarette before Rachel herself bounds up to the both of them, looking stressed. Victoria takes an immediate step forward, but Nathan presses her back. She realizes, with a shock, that Rachel isn't here for her, anyway.  
  
"You got me suspended." Her voice is unfiltered disbelief.  
  
Nathan says nothing. He's looking back at her, silent.  
  
"You told Wells and Madsen that I run _drugs?_ "  
  
Oh. Oh, _wow._ Victoria is fucking delighted. She cannot keep the smile off of her face. She turns to Nathan, hoping to see one equally as satisfied and sadistic, wanting to share a cruel laugh with him the way they always do when one of their peers tries to talk back to someone in the Vortex or is dressed unfashionably or does something embarrassing or just happens to piss them off that day. But Nathan's not smiling. He clearly isn't enjoying any of this.  
  
"How d'you know it was me?" he asks finally. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets.  
  
"I can't believe you would just—" Rachel stops. "I don't _understand_ ," she tries restarting her sentence. "I..." Her fingers twitch, and her wrists jump, like she wants to reach out for something. For Nathan. She does, for just a moment, closing her hand on his sleeve. Her fingers twist into it. Victoria's immediate instinct is to slap her hand away; the only thing that stops her is the fact that Nathan looks so fucking miserable.  
  
"I had to," is all he says. It's numb.  
  
"You had to," repeats Rachel, and her voice is just a whisper, before a sort of futility seems to dawn on her, shadowing her every feature. She looks between the two of them, and then she jerks away, a full body twitch that makes her walk off with the cadence of a robot. They watch her go in silence. Victoria's cigarette rains ash onto her suede shoes.  
  
Why would Nathan report Rachel for running drugs, when his own dealing is the worst kept secret at Blackwell? Victoria doesn't spend a whole lot of time wondering. She decides that she doesn't really give a shit, that the miserable look Nathan and Rachel had exchanged means nothing significant. Maybe she'd done something to piss him off, said the wrong thing or asked the wrong question or picked up his favored clients. It doesn't matter. Nathan has sunk a knife in her back, if Rachel's expression is anything to go by, and Victoria is fine with that.  
  
Rachel's suspension lasts a week, and, after that, her attendance turns spotty over the next couple of months. She even starts avoiding the common areas of the dorms, and she stops trying to engage Victoria in class. It's strange for Rachel to be so withdrawn, and she's not the only one who notices; other members of the Vortex Club start lamenting that she keeps canceling plans on them. But all that matters is that Nathan doesn't mention her from that point forward, and so Victoria is happy enough to pretend that Rachel, and the way she keeps seeing her around campus with Mr. Jefferson despite everything, does not exist.

   
  


Victoria will not realize it until months later, when she looks back on the whole thing, but her last interaction with Rachel Amber takes place at a Vortex Club party on March 28th.  
  
Rachel shows up with her blue haired friend in tow. Victoria is used to seeing her as a total social butterfly at these parties, flitting from clique to clique freely like she doesn't understand basic mores, but when Rachel walks in this time, it's with purpose. She's holding her friend's hand, but she lets go once they break into the sound and lights. Victoria watches from the VIP section as Rachel walks around, looking back and forth, determined to find someone.  
  
She's shocked when it turns out to be her. Rachel leaves her friend standing a few paces back when she approaches.  
  
"Uh," says Victoria, instead of greeting her properly. "What the hell makes you think I want to talk to you all of a sudden?"  
  
"You're not going to want to have this conversation," says Rachel, her voice so low that Victoria has to set her cup down and lean in to hear it, "so I'm just going to tell you. You need to be careful around Nathan."  
  
Wow. It's such a cheap tactic that Victoria is almost insulted by the lack of effort put into it. _This_ is Rachel's revenge plot? Really?  
  
"Oh my _god_!" Victoria says, feigning shock, and then her eyes are halving to slits. She picks her drink back up and stares at Rachel over the rim. Half of her wants to reach out and yank the feather right out of her ear, leave it all torn and bloody, and the other half of her is still sober enough to remember that she doesn't want to wind up in Wells's office again. "Are you _serious?_ Are you _really_ wasting my time with this? How stupid _are_ you?"  
  
"Nathan is... He's not... He could really hurt you one day," says Rachel, but her voice is faltering; she seems to be realizing that this isn't going to work. It's a pathetic show.  
  
"So a few months ago it was that Nathan was going to hurt _himself_ ," Victoria begins, deliberately leaving out the part where that had turned out to be true, "and now it's that Nathan's going to hurt _me?_ Déjà fucking _vu_ , Miss Budget Kate Moss. Make up your mind."  
  
As if Nathan would ever want to hurt her. Rachel doesn't understand at all. If she is trying to drive a wedge between them, she's several years too late, Victoria decides. Not that her friendship with Nathan is perfect, or even very good, but it's easy to pretend that she doesn't call it into question daily when she has Rachel to turn her nose up at.  
  
"Be careful," implores Rachel. Victoria wishes she could throw her drink into her pretty face. She certainly knows how to look sincere.  
  
"I don't take advice from junkie whores," says Victoria, who has both lost her patience and is beginning to feel a little bit creeped out. "So bye bye."  
  
"Well, I tried," murmurs Rachel. She shoves her hands in her ratty coat pockets. "If you ever do me just one favor, don't put it out of your head. Have a good night, Victoria."  
  
Victoria is too annoyed to reply. She simply turns away, cupping her drink. By the time she looks back over her shoulder, Rachel is long gone, and Victoria doesn't know it now, but she'll never have the opportunity to speak with her again.

   
  


April 23rd is the date that Rachel disappears.  
  
Nobody's really sure, at first, if that's actually what has happened. Rachel's attendance hasn't been great lately, and most of the students don't question it when she misses another day. It's actually a couple of days before people start whispering, and it's three before it becomes something real. By the time everybody collectively realizes that no one knows where Rachel is, it's been four days.  
  
Police visit the school and cordon off Rachel's dorm. Her room is right at the beginning of the hallway, so Victoria sees it every single time she walks to and from her own. Wells holds an assembly, and the entire school is made to attend. _ARCADIA BAY GIRL MISSING,_ say both of the local newspapers. A pall cloaks the town.  
  
Victoria stands outside of room 224, staring at the yellow police tape.  
  
"I heard a rumor that she booked it to California," murmurs Juliet to Dana behind her. "Didn't tell anyone. Not even her family. Cold hearted, huh? Not a _clue_ left behind."  
  
It's strange, but she finds herself imagining it constantly, the thoughts intruding at unrelated moments. In her mind she pictures Rachel coasting the California highways on a motorbike. Soaking up the sun on a beach. Making new friends she can party with. Enjoying the sunset from the hills. Posing for magazines and billboards. Letting the dragon on her calf be set aflame by the lights on Hollywood Boulevard. It's easy to position Rachel within these environments in her head. It feels natural.  
  
But it doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel true. And yet Victoria wants it to be. Rachel can't be missing. Rachel has to be indestructible. She _has_ to be.  
  
Everyone seems to want to mourn her. And maybe if Rachel were dead — hit by a car, or overdosed, or something else — they might be able to.  
  
But Rachel's uncertain fate puts Arcadia Bay in stasis. Nobody knows if Rachel is alive or not. Nobody wants to be the first to _say_ it, and so no one is mourning, but they're not breathing easy, either. Through her disappearance, Rachel has condemned them all to purgatory. She has mired them all in a world of suspended animation, forever locked in a paradox: _is she or isn't she?_  
  
The absence of Rachel Amber hasn't left a vacancy. It's left a black hole that is consuming the town from its core.  
  
When people first start whispering about what might have happened to Rachel, Victoria texts Nathan, wanting to get a feel for what he thinks. He doesn't answer any of her questions; instead, he writes back, _come to my dorm_.

   
  


Nathan locks the door behind her when she enters. His room is a vision in contrasts, brightness spilling onto the projector screen, the only white in an otherwise dark room. His blinds are drawn, and with the only light filtering out from the screen, Victoria feels like she's entered a dream world. Nathan's skin glows in it. The room swims with the haze of smoke.  
  
She sits on his bed without prompting, and she thinks back to that night in December, even though she's trying not to. She wonders if he's thinking about the same thing. He's pinching off buds of weed and pressing them down into the bowl of his pipe, absorbed in it. She watches the watery light mottle Nathan's pale features.  
  
"Do you— do you really think she'd just go without telling anyone?" Victoria finally asks aloud. She doesn't like the sound of her own voice in this room. Like this is a place more suited to silence.  
  
Nathan's shoulders slump forward, and he brings his knees together, then apart. "Don't know," he says, but he stutters it.  
  
The projector is rolling through the slide show that is Nathan's desktop screensaver. Victoria stares at the photos that fade in, and then out. Each one is in monochrome. Contrasts. They're everywhere in this room. They're even in the way the light plays off of Nathan's face.  
  
"Do you think she's okay?" Victoria asks quietly. She looks down at her lap. She picks at a run in her tights.  
  
There's only the sound of the flick of Nathan's lighter in response. He sucks in deep and then leans back into the pillows. When he answers, he speaks through a cloud of smoke that obscures his face and thickens his voice.  
  
"I think," he says unsteadily, "I think... What if it was you...?"  
  
That isn't where she expected him to go with this, and she doesn't know what to say, because she can't read his tone at all. When he leans forward to press the pipe and the lighter into her hand, though, she can see his face, and he looks completely miserable. He's looking at her like he's afraid. Like he's waiting for her to say something that will fix it all.  
  
_What are you thinking?_ she wants to ask him. _How the fuck do you really feel about any of this?_ And, _Do you still have her bracelet?_  
  
"What if it was?" she says finally, so quiet she's not sure that she's voiced it at all. But Nathan must hear her, because he flinches. Victoria lights up. The smoke drags a thick burning into her lungs. It blooms inside of her, makes her bright and dull all at once.  
  
"You won't," says Nathan, in that voice that she knows so well, the one that braces against panic, "you won't just disappear one day. You _won't._ "  
  
Victoria is always telling herself not to go soft for Nathan, because every time she drags down her defenses, he crashes through and leaves her to lick the resulting wounds on her own. But it's so, so hard to hold back from him. It's almost infuriating— Victoria has never allowed anyone _else_ to play her like this. But Nathan has her fine tuned, and he doesn't even know it.  
  
She lowers the pipe. Breathes out. Doesn't cough. "I'm not," she says quietly. She doesn't want to look at him in case she finds anything in his face that will twist the knife in her heart the way it had the last time she'd sat on a bed with him. She doesn't understand why he's scared. She'll never run off like Rachel. She'll never get involved in drugs, or crime, or whatever else has her on the run, and she's not so desperate that she'd do anything to get to California just for a shot at stardom. She'll make it on her own. "I'll be fine, Nate."  
  
The silence roots itself deep into her spine, where it aches. Victoria wants something to fill it. There's a soft blue glow coming from the CD player on Nathan's nightstand. The display indicates that it's paused in the middle of the second track. Victoria compulsively leans forward and hits _PLAY_.  
  
At first, she hears nothing but the projector, but then she realizes that it's not that. It's the sound of water from below the surface, muffled, undulating. And then something low, deep, mournful— a cry that holds itself in one long somber note from somewhere far away.  
  
Whale song.  
  
The last thing she wants to do is imagine all of the hours Nathan has spent alone in this dark, gloomy room, listening to ambient sounds. All of the hours he's spent isolated from her and the rest of the world. The hours she'd _let_ him have, never certain of when was and wasn't okay to engage him. But she's imagining it anyway, and she feels desperately, horrifically lonely. For him. For herself. It doesn't have to be like this, but it is. It's always been this way.  
  
Nathan's reaching out for her hand. She lets him take it. She sets the pipe aside just as Nathan takes a shuddering breath, leans forward, and kisses her.  
  
She thinks she's been waiting for it.  
  
It's not her first kiss, but it feels that way. There's a hesitance to it, and a desperation— a need to make it count, to make it _matter_. Nathan's fingers settle into the back of her sweater, each fingertip on a different ridge of her spine. Victoria sinks into him.  
  
Has it always been coming to this? Has it just been inevitable? How long have they been picking their ways around it, exhausting every route but this one, trying not to define themselves to one another?  
  
There's just Nathan's dry mouth against hers. Nathan's hands stroking her back. Nathan shivering like it's the end of the world. Just Nathan. It's always been just Nathan.  
  
Maybe, Victoria tells herself, she's just exhausted from fighting it, from trying to name what she has with Nathan, from trying to find the intersection between head and heart. Nathan's always been monochromes on the outside, but he's grey on the inside, and he's smeared her colors together, too, turned her all one mutable shade of nothing.  
  
Victoria isn't sure who pulls the both of them down to the mattress, but one of them does, and Nathan crawls on top of her, which makes her heart race in ways she'd thought she was completely immune to — repulsed by — when it came to boys, or to girls, or to anyone. He's kissing her again, and his weight on top of her makes her feel _safe_ , somehow. She's not sure if that's because it's Nathan, or because of the way his shadow drops over her. She just knows that she's letting herself be dragged by the undertow.  
  
But her head breaks the surface when he pulls away. It's abrupt. It leaves her numb, voiceless, her mind blank. She opens her eyes and stares up at him. Nathan is looking down at her like he's just recovered from amnesia. He pushes himself up and off of her, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Victoria realizes that at some point she must have slid his jacket off of his shoulders, because he's pulling it back into place.  
  
"I'm sorry," Nathan chokes. "It— i-it doesn't feel..."  
  
He doesn't finish the thought, but it's that, his voice, that sluices through the haze in the room, douses the pale light, drowns out the mournful sounds of the whales. That ambiguous _it_ , the thing that isn't right, the feeling that neither of them can put a name to or quantify— he's right. Whatever it is, whatever shape it's taken now, the inevitability of it— it tears suddenly and violently through her that they can't go through with this.  
  
She wants to be angry. Humiliated. She wants to strike him across the face and stand up and storm out of the room and never talk to him again. But Victoria just feels more insecure and confused than ever, and she knows that Nathan is right. They shouldn't head in this direction with one another. Victoria can already see it sinking like a rock in the sea.  
  
"I really shouldn't have—" Nathan starts, strained.  
  
"It's okay," says Victoria. She sounds exhausted. She _feels_ exhausted. She reaches for the pipe again, like nothing unusual has happened. That's the only way to move past this. It's the only way to move on from any failure: to pretend that it never happened. Victoria knows this. She is nothing if not an expert at cleaving herself from her emotions. She hands Nathan the pipe. "Here. Let's finish this," she says.  
  
Nathan looks like he wants to apologize. Like he wants to say something, or keep talking about it. For a moment, she thinks he even looks like he wants to kiss her again, but maybe that's just all in her head.  
  
He takes the pipe from her, and soon he's covered in smoke again, and she is relieved to not have to look at him. It also means that he can't look at her, either. That he can't see the ache widening a hole in her chest.

   
  


Mr. Jefferson won't discuss Rachel with her, or with anyone, saying only that he hopes that she's alright. Victoria doesn't try again for his opinion after that first time asking. Why should she? It's not as though she doesn't have a reason to celebrate, at least with Mr. Jefferson. Without Rachel around to organize supplies and help with assignments and feedback, someone has to step up as his assistant. Victoria decides that it's going to be her, and it is. It's that easy to make it happen.  
  
A month passes, and then two. The Blackwell machine cautiously begins to move again, and while Victoria would like to think that it's almost as though Rachel were never around, the fact is that she remains among them all everywhere she looks. Rachel's missing posters cover the campus like a coat of paint, spread around by her increasingly desperate blue haired friend. Victoria starts to develop a reaction every time she sees one, like a twitch. She rips down posters when she runs into them, and, when asked about it, tells everyone that she's encouraging recycling. Sometimes she doesn't just tear. Sometimes, if she's feeling particularly bitter about the perpetual state of paranoia that Rachel has thrown the campus into, she defaces them, continuing her campaign of graffiti even though Rachel is no longer around to see it.  
  
**NO 1 CARES** , she writes on one of them. **BYE BYE** , on another. **DON'T COME BACK** , on more than one poster.  
  
Rachel was supposed to be invincible. Victoria had _needed_ her to be invincible. Something constant. Maybe that's why every time she sees one of Rachel's posters, it's like a knife in her chest, twisting hard, blood surging out of her like floodwater. _You weren't supposed to disappear._ Sometimes it keeps her from sleeping, has her supine in bed with a stinging in the corners of her eyes that she can't quite explain or justify to herself. Victoria had hated everything about her. _Still_ hates everything about her.  
  
She wishes, desperately, that Rachel would come back.  
  
Nathan starts popping pills that Victoria knows are not prescribed to him; none of the bottles have his name. His moods turn mercurial; Victoria's used to him being sullen, but as the days pass by following Rachel's disappearance, he swings rapidly between angry and playful, sad and haughty. For his sake, Victoria pretends not to notice either his volatility or his attempts at self medication. She also pretends that he'd never kissed her, and that, at least, is a lie he makes it easy for her to maintain.  
  
The Vortex spiral winds on, neverending. Victoria is primed to take control of the club at this point; there are several members graduating this year, and by now, even if a lot of students at Blackwell don't _like_ her, they are forced to respect her. Victoria couldn't give less of a shit about what they think about her or what they're saying; all talk is good talk, as far as staying on top is concerned. She just needs everyone to stay the hell out of her way. And they do. People want to be her friend. They want to join the Vortex because of her. They all compliment her photography and her style and her taste.  
  
It's taken nearly the entire school year, but Victoria finally has nearly everything she wants out of Blackwell. She wonders if Rachel was the factor that had been holding her back. She supposes that it doesn't matter now. Maybe it never did.

   
  


Victoria is helping organize student portfolios after class one day. Final exams are a strange time at Blackwell, sending the science focused students into a complete panic and the arts based students in a rush to complete their year end projects. Victoria, who has already handed in all of her assignments, has plenty of time to simply visit with Mr. Jefferson and talk. They're always conversations that she greatly values and enjoys— mostly they talk about the art, but, as the weeks have gone by, Victoria thinks she's coaxed some slightly more personal things out of him. He's shared a few stories about growing up in Arcadia Bay, about his grunge days in Seattle, about his time as a high fashion photographer on the east coast. She feels pleased with herself for getting that much out of him. It feels like they're bonding. For the first time in months, she lets her mind wander again to shape out new, idealized futures in which he is a major part. One day they might be toasting at her exclusive gallery exhibition.  
  
Mr. Jefferson has stepped out for a moment, and she's picking through the portfolios, pulling out the ones that are actually relevant to the end of the current semester, when she sees one that immediately catches her attention: _PRESCOTT, Nathan_. The folder looks new, like it's been handled very little. She reaches for it and lets it fall open on her lap.  
  
Black and white photos spill out from it. The subjects aren't exactly to her tastes, but they're Nathan's usual style. Dead birds. Insects. Lots of shots of Arcadia Bay's only cemetery. The photos of Rachel are in here, too; Victoria shuffles past those quickly. There are pictures of the forest. Of his truck. Of an owl sitting high up in a loft somewhere. An old tractor. Standard shots. The only thing that sets them apart from the work of an amateur is the unusually precise framing and the deep shadows, so dark and rich that she could just fall right into them. Victoria can always instantaneously recognize Nathan's photos. He has an inherent eye for the art that she would do just about anything to have. It's always been that way.  
  
She continues sorting through the photos. And then she comes across a drawing.  
  
At first, she thinks that it's just a lot of black scratches. The ink is spread across the page violently; the tip of the pen has abraded the paper, raising it like a scar in every spot it's slashed across. But then her eyes adjust, and she begins to see images in the black: spirals. Eyes. Words. She can't make out what they say. They're written over and over and over, layered on top of one another so densely that she can't read any of them.  
  
_Did Nathan draw this?_ she wonders, confused, staring at it. _When?_  
  
The door creaks open. Mr. Jefferson is walking back inside. Victoria hastily slips the photos of Rachel back on top of the drawing and puts a smile on her face for him. It's not hard; looking at him always makes her happy. That feeling of being awed in the presence of her idol has never faded, and she sort of hopes it never does.  
  
"What have you got there?" he asks mildly, returning her smile easily. He steps over, peering down at the folder she has open. His eyes settle on Rachel's portrait for a few lingering seconds before he looks back to Victoria. "Ah. Nathan's file. It's really a shame he refused to come back for this semester." He genuinely sounds regretful.  
  
"He could be a pro no matter what," says Victoria, shaking her head. "He doesn't need to be taught. He's already amazing."  
  
"Maybe he doesn't need to be taught," says Mr. Jefferson, gently but firmly, "but every artist needs _guidance_. There are some things you can't prepare yourself for." And then, almost as if it's an afterthought, he asks, "Do you think Nathan wants that?"  
  
"Um, a career in photography?" Victoria has to think about it. Nathan had never mentioned it in particular, but she knows that taking photos has to bring him more satisfaction than the prospect of one day leading the Prescott Foundation ever would. "Probably. But it is _not_ going to happen."  
  
"What makes you say that?"  
  
Victoria tips her chin up. "You've met his dad," she says carefully. "Right? Since the Prescott Foundation invited you to come to Blackwell..."  
  
"Sean Prescott has revitalized Arcadia Bay," says Mr. Jefferson, "and he is a respected philanthropist. I would hope that he would be receptive to Nathan's goals."  
  
"Maybe Nathan doesn't know what his goals are," says Victoria, shrugging. She's not sure why Mr. Jefferson cares so much, since Nathan clearly has no interest in returning to his class for whatever reason, but it's nice to know that he's this concerned with and dedicated to the Blackwell student body. Not that she really gives a shit beyond what he thinks of her own work.  
  
"No," agrees Mr. Jefferson, "not everyone is as focused as you, Victoria. And with that said— you've done more than enough today. I was planning on heading out. I'm paid on a salary, not by the hour." He smiles slightly at his own joke; she knows he's not in want of money. "Let's get this tidied up so we can both be on our way."  
  
Victoria snaps Nathan's folder shut and makes sure she puts it exactly back where she found it before Mr. Jefferson has a chance to pick it up. But not before she covertly slides the drawing out and shoves it into her purse.

   
  


She isn't sure what to do with the drawing. She contemplates asking Nathan about it, but in the end, she gives it to Wells. He isn't happy to see her at first, and he asks her why she's come to his office. His mood quickly changes when she shows him the paper. He asks her why she's brought it to him. Victoria shrugs and tells him that she's just a little concerned, that's all. She doesn't tell Wells about the meds; she doesn't tell him about the moods, the inconsistencies, the way Nathan seems to be bearing a secret. She's not a snitch. She's just looking out for him. She doesn't like Wells — she kind of despises him, actually — but if anyone is equipped to investigate what is going on with Nathan without engaging his father, it's him. At least she thinks so. She hopes so.  
  
Not even two hours later, Nathan is bounding up to her. She's scrolling through Taylor's Instagram feed outside with her on the grass, and Nathan's voice is raised so loud that when he speaks, Taylor yelps and nearly drops her phone.  
  
"Where did you find it?" he demands.  
  
"Excuse me?" Victoria uses the phrase as a filler, because she already knows what he means, but she has no idea how he knows it was her.  
  
"Come _on_ ," he says anxiously. "Over there. Talk to me." He jerks his head over towards the side of the sports building. Ordinarily, Victoria might tell him to fuck off, that whatever he has to say, he can say it right here, but she doesn't want Taylor to hear this, so she gets up.  
  
"Just a sec, T," she says.  
  
"No prob," Taylor says easily, but her brows are furrowed as she stares between the two of them.  
  
Nathan is already pacing by the wall when Victoria joins him. "The Principal wants me to see the counselor 'cause of that _fucking_ drawing."  
  
"Well," says Victoria. " _Did_ you draw it?"  
  
"It could be some stupid fucking abstract thing for a class."  
  
"Was it?"  
  
"No," says Nathan, deflating. He's got his fingertips under one sleeve cuff. Victoria can see him rubbing at a raw pink line of flesh on his wrist. He yanks his sleeve back down before she can see more. "Why the hell would you hand something like that over?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know," Victoria says, struggling not to snap. "Maybe it's because you've started popping pills, and you don't exactly have a good track record with those. Or maybe it's because your ' _art_ ' looks like some kind of crazy serial killer's nightmare dreamscape? _Fuck_ , Nathan. What was I _supposed_ to do? What's _wrong_ with seeing the counselor, anyway?"  
  
Nathan's looking at her in shock. She doesn't know which part of what she's said has managed to put that look on his face. He doesn't clue her in. He just rubs a hand against his cheek.  
  
"You're too much," Nathan laughs, brokenly. "You never got it, Vic. Never."  
  
"I _want_ to," she says, and she means it, even though she doesn't know what there is to get about it, or where to begin, and she feels just as broken as he looks. " _Tell_ me."  
  
"Can't."  
  
It hurts. It's physical. Victoria straightens herself. She gets harder.  
  
"Then _why_ are we having this conversation?" she demands sharply.  
  
There's a _MISSING: RACHEL AMBER_ poster hung up right by Nathan's head. He's turned to look at it; Victoria's eyes fall on it, as well. When he doesn't answer her, she reaches out to rip it off of the wall. Shreds of it are left behind on the bricks. They curl in the breeze.  
  
"Don't look at her," Victoria snarls. "Look at _me_ when you're talking to me."  
  
Nathan turns his face in her direction, but he won't look at her. He's completely expressionless.  
  
_Look at me,_ she wants to say again, wants to grasp him and beg.  
  
But he doesn't linger. Nathan shoulders past her like he's being called by someone and suddenly has somewhere else to be. Taylor calls her back over, but Victoria just stays where she is against the wall. Eventually, Taylor gets up to join her. They stand there in uncomfortable silence. Victoria lets Taylor talk at her on the slow walk back to the dorms, but her mind isn't entirely there.  
  
Victoria has spent so long telling herself that Nathan is a pressure that she can shoulder alone, never wondering if he actually _wants_ to fall onto her, or if she's even capable of holding him up. But he's not something that she can carry. Maybe he's never been her cross to bear. Maybe he's a weight that she's been sinking herself with.  
  
No, she realizes, finally. She's not sinking herself. She's being pulled beneath the surface.


	5. exposure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. I know, I know. Where has this fic been for the past two months??? Stuck in my head, basically. I know I promised one more chapter— and that's still mostly true. I've just decided to split it up into two parts because it is absolutely enormous. The second part is more or less done, pending final edits, and it'll be up in January.
> 
> This chapter was a huge struggle, so here is an equally huge author's note, because we're heading into canon territory now, and I want to talk about a few things.
> 
> First off, I created [a playlist](http://mjrrgr.tumblr.com/post/131403956133/exposure-a-nathan-and-victoria-playlist-curated) for this fic after completing chapter four. There will be a part two to the playlist that will go up with the final part. Check it out if you're interested in the music that helped shape this fic. Secondly, approximately 3k words' worth of edits have been made to this fic in between posting chapter four and now. Mostly I just refined phrasing here and there and amended a few minor things after _Polarized_ was released. If you have already been reading the fic up to this point, the changes are so minor that it's not really necessary for you to reread, so don't worry about that.
> 
> Lastly, I want to talk about my choices and my reasons for the way I have gone about writing this fic. Feel free to skip all of this, honestly, lol. 
> 
> My intention in writing this was to answer the questions I had about the nature of these characters and their relationship, because Dontnod left so much that was conflicting or vague. The resultant fic is my best attempt at answering questions like "What kind of person is Victoria if she is capable of crying with guilt alone in her room over Kate's suicide(/attempt) and then attempting to seduce her teacher for selfish reasons later on that same night?" and "What kind of person is Victoria if she is capable of moving so easily between intense vulnerability and shallow selfishness?" 
> 
> Someone with such massive inconsistencies in her personality must have a lot lurking beneath the surface. I chose to believe that, fundamentally, Victoria is a good person, so this fic keeps that in mind in an attempt to make things consistent. So, in some ways, this fic naturally conflicts with canon, but there was honestly no other way for me to write this no matter how I looked at it, because canon contradicts _itself._ This is my best approximation of bringing together those discordant pieces. I believe that the majority of this is consistent in the ways that matter most, particularly in regards to filling the gaps in the relationship between Nathan and Victoria. What I chose to focus on turned out to be much more challenging than I ever thought it would be, which is why this chapter has taken so long; trying to reconcile Victoria as seen in canon with the unknown reasons why she is the way she is was a much more complex exercise than I had estimated at the outset.
> 
> My interpretation of Victoria is subjective, even as I have tried to be objective in the fic. It may not be the same as your interpretation— it might be completely _opposite_ of yours. But I am grateful if you decided to give this piece a shot anyway, and to everyone who checked this work out and made it to this chapter, I thank you. This may not be your vision of Victoria Chase, but this is my best and most sincere attempt at presenting an objective view of her without making excuses for or erasing her behavior. 
> 
> I chose to work with two of the lesser focused-upon characters in the game in this piece, and I chose an even more obscure topic: their relationship. It's a niche fic, and so it's attracted a niche audience (which I love). But even though this fic has only a quarter of the hits/kudos/whatever of my others, I have had an incredibly rewarding, amazing experience writing it. Thank you so much to everyone who has reached out to me to share their thoughts and feelings about _full bleed_ , whether it's been here or on Tumblr.
> 
> Here's part one of chapter 5, _exposure_.

The summer bridging her first and second year at Blackwell has Victoria working at the Chase Space, shadowing her mother in a role she had stopped coveting years ago. She's tired of it all— of the selectivity and the bureaucratic nature of everything. It all begins to blur together like an abstract painting.  
  
Art is a game, isn't it? Just like life. Victoria isn't certain any more if she has ever known the rules for either one.  
  
Everything in Seattle begins to run together into a simulacrum of grey haze and dull buildings, and although Victoria carries her camera at her side, she seizes up every time she reaches for it. What's the point? She hasn't taken a decent photo in weeks. _Months_ , actually, if she really thinks about it.  
  
The Chase Space becomes completely intolerable towards the end of the summer, and Victoria slips out one afternoon after borrowing her father's car. The market down by the water is only a couple of miles away, and after parking she heads down there, trying not to feel as alone as she must look. The dry summer hasn't brought the blue sky everyone has been expecting; instead, it's a pale silver-white, and the ocean beneath it is an uneasy black. Victoria stares blankly out onto it, waiting for inspiration to strike her; she is not at all surprised when it fails to come.  
  
Her phone vibrates. She lowers her camera.  
  
Nathan.  
  
_when will u be back_  
  
That's all. It's the first thing she's heard from him since the end of the semester. Victoria wonders what has inspired him to break his radio silence. It could be anything; she is forced to admit to herself that the insight she once believed she had into Nathan's head might never have existed, gone to the same place her inspiration has disappeared to.  
  
_You're too much._ The memory plays back in her mind. _You never got it, Vic. Never._  
  
As far as she is concerned, she has never owed Nathan an apology for what had happened at the end of last semester. She'd been trying to do the right thing— whatever that was. Apparently Nathan hadn't wanted her to. That was fine, she'd resolved. She wouldn't try again, unwilling to allow herself to be hurt once more.  
  
But she's tired, and she is so ready to be back in Arcadia Bay and away from her mother she could scream. She wants to be home.  
  
_When school starts,_ she sends back.  
  
His counter arrives immediately. _i want to see u today_  
  
Victoria knows that she should respond with _No,_ should tell him _What the hell, you can't just invite yourself over,_ should send _You owe me a fucking apology_ , but instead she writes,  
  
_Okay._

   
  


It turns out that Nathan is already in the city, and that he's staying in the Fairmont with his parents, who are visiting on a business trip. The hotel is actually well within walking distance.  
  
He's already waiting in the lobby when she gets there, slouching in one of the brocade chairs and staring at his cell phone. Victoria's heels puncture divots in the heavy carpet as she walks towards him. She is in a sleeveless dress for the smoggy heat, but as usual, Nathan's summer wardrobe has him dressed like it's already fall, a dark sweater on top of his collared shirt. He looks tired, too— like whatever he's been up to this summer has been draining him the way the Chase Space has been draining her.  
  
She takes off her Prada sunglasses, clutching them in her hand. "Hey," she says, a little loudly.  
  
His head jerks up, and he looks at her with the red rimmed eyes of an insomniac— so, she thinks, he looks the same as ever. "Hey," he says, and his voice is soft, straddling doubt, as if he's not sure what to expect of her, even though he was the one to message her first.  
  
Victoria feels distinctly uncomfortable, and it's not just the way she's standing above him while he sits in the ornate chair, looking like a young prince. "Well?" she asks, finally. " _What_ do you want to do? I don't have all day." A flick of her eyes to her watch. Very deliberate. "I've got my father's car and he wants it back this evening."  
  
Nathan nods, as twitchy as ever, and stands. It's an unsteady movement, his balance tipping to one leg and then the other, and Victoria narrows her eyes as she examines him. _Not sober,_ she thinks. _Okay._ Apparently, his summer has been rougher than hers.  
  
"We can get coffee or something," he suggests, a shoulder jumping.  
  
_Coffee._ "You're staying in one of the nicest hotels in the city," she says, "and you want to take me to fucking Starbucks?" It comes out sounding sharp, but the broken tension makes a smile cross her face like splintering ice.  
  
Nathan notices this, and the corners of his mouth tug up. "I could take you to dinner here," he says. "Is that what it'd take to get you not pissed at me? You wanna eat shitty overpriced seafood?"  
  
So he's been thinking about the argument, too. "No." Something within her goes soft and malleable, and she resents it. "No. Starbucks is fine."  
  
"I never could buy you," says Nathan, and he laughs suddenly, short and amazed. His eyes dart to her, then to the carpet, then to the doors. "C'mon. There's one on every fucking block in this assfuck city."  
  
He's right. There is one less than a quarter of a mile away. Victoria orders her usual — a non-fat white chocolate mocha with raspberry syrup — and settles down by the window with her camera in her lap, flicking through the previews. She doesn't have to count to know how many photos she has taken over the summer: three.  
  
Nathan returns with their drinks, which Victoria is honestly surprised that he hasn't dropped; it's become obvious to her that he's on _something_ , but he seems grounded, somehow. She puts her camera down and reaches for her cup, studying him over the rim even as he stares at her and then to the object in her lap.  
  
"You've been shooting?" he prompts.  
  
"Not... really," she says reluctantly.  
  
His expression contorts into something like confusion. "Why?"  
  
_Why?_ she repeats in her head. She doesn't know. Maybe because she isn't sure if she's ever had any talent to begin with.  
  
"This city doesn't inspire me," is what she says, which is true enough. If lying by omission is a trap, she has yet to become caught in any significant way. Before he can drill her any further, she adds, "What about _you?_ What have you been shooting this summer?"  
  
Nathan looks at her, and then he sets down his drink and swipes to unlock his phone. "I can e-mail you the raws if you wanna look at anything close up later," he suggests as he hands it over to her. His voice is thin.  
  
Victoria accepts it and stares down at the images he has brought up for her. They're black and white, as usual — Victoria thinks that it's been almost a year, or maybe more, since she last saw him take a photo in color — and, just as typically, each photo is so beautiful it makes her stomach hurt and her head suffuse with static.  
  
Even in monochrome, Victoria recognizes the places represented in these photos. Many of them are of the cemetery, studies in light and shadow, an acquiescence to darkness. Looking at these photos, even on the small screen of Nathan's phone inside of a warm, brightly lit coffee shop, is enough to make her feel cold and alone in a way that makes her think of last December and how hollow and mute the entire world had felt once the ambulance had sped away from the Prescott manor.  
  
Every single photo is worthy of a gallery. She thumbs through them and thinks, faintly, that if Nathan were to submit any one of these to the Chase Space, her mother would accept it instantaneously.  
  
She can't even resent him for it, even though she knows that, for Nathan, his gift comes as easily as just pressing the shutter. She's watched him, tried to define the make and method of his art, and it has never become clear to her. It's not what he chooses to take photos of or how he decides to do it. She could try to emulate both of those things — and she has — and still not come out with a similar photo. The difference is that Nathan has something that Mark Jefferson often refers to in lectures: ' _the eye_ '.  
  
Victoria holds the phone back out to him. "I don't really have any critique," is what she finally manages to say, forcing it out. "They're all really... Well, you already know you're good." She brings her drink back to her lips to shut herself up, although she tastes more of the lip gloss she's left behind on the first sip than the coffee itself. It numbs her tongue.  
  
Nathan smiles at her in a watery way. "We should get together," he suggests, "and collaborate on something. Real art. Maybe when school starts again."  
  
She remembers something. "Are you going to be registering for photography class again?"  
  
His expression falters. "No."  
  
She wants to ask him why, and she's thinking about it as she leans over to put her cup down on the table. There is a newspaper laid out there, open to a page with a small article that catches her eye.  
  
_QUESTIONS REMAIN ABOUT MISSING ARCADIA BAY GIRL_ , it says. Below it is Rachel Amber's omnipresent portrait.  
  
"Even in fucking Seattle?" Victoria snaps. It lashes out of her mouth unbidden.  
  
Nathan leans over to look at it. "That's..." His teeth drag over his bottom lip, and his brows lower for a moment, like he's reconsidering his words.  
  
"Et in Arcadia ego," he finally says.  
  
Victoria lifts her head to look at him, ripping her eyes away from Rachel's. "What?"  
  
"Even in Arcadia," he says, "there am I." He pauses. "Or... 'even in Seattle'... I guess." His teeth roll against his lip. "Poussin. You took Art History last semester, didn't you?"  
  
Victoria pauses for a moment, before a vague recollection of the painting comes to her. "Yeah," she says, finally. "But Rachel Amber is no work of art." She rolls her eyes.  
  
Nathan is silent at that, staring down at the photo as Victoria tries to catch his gaze. How is it that even now — even when she's been gone for _months_ , fucked off to god-knows-where — he still chooses to look at Rachel instead?  
  
Victoria reaches for her cup and places it right on top of Rachel's face to cover it— silencing her somehow, even though Rachel is not here, has not said a word. When his gaze is broken, Nathan lifts his head. It makes the knot in Victoria's throat swell up.  
  
"Wherever I go," she says, "there you are."  
  
She's not sure if she's talking to Rachel or to Nathan.

   
  


The new year brings a handful of new students to Blackwell, and that means a shuffle within the dormitory. Victoria has already secured her room for the year, and so she has nothing to be concerned about when it comes to moving. But Rachel's empty room is finally going to be filled, with Taylor moving from the less than ideal spot around the corner to the front of the hallway. On the move-in day, Victoria teases her about it as they move boxes from room 227 to 224.  
  
"Be careful," she says to Taylor as they organize her wardrobe, "you might, like, get an STD from her mattress."  
  
"Stop!" Taylor shrieks, laughing. " _Gross!_ "  
  
But Victoria is relieved, in a way. She doesn't have to think of room 224 as empty any more, doesn't have to feel like it's calling to her like a signal flare every time she is in the hall, the police tape permanently superimposed over the door in her head.  
  
Over the summer, someone had removed most of the graffiti and debris from campus— every old flyer and notice and billboard. Blackwell looks shiny-new again, but what it means for Victoria is that the grounds have been entirely scoured of Rachel's image.  
  
But the posters begin showing up again within the first few days. A new year should mean a new start, she thinks bitterly. Everyone already _knows_ that Rachel is missing. She tells herself that she won't waste any more of her time tearing the posters down, and then finds herself doing it anyway, clutching the paper between her fingers. Sometimes, it cuts her.  
  
On the morning of the first day, she accesses Rachel's Facebook page. As usual, there is nothing new; the last update is from April. Victoria has checked it almost daily since the day Rachel had been announced missing, anticipating the eventual _Hey, guys, I totally went off to smoke weed in the desert and find myself, 'cause I'm a dirty-ass hippie. BTW, here's a photo of me modeling for Abercrombie or some other retailer with fugly clothes. Sorry I never said goodbye!_ post. It hasn't come yet.  
  
She clicks the _Message_ button, and then stares at the blank form.  
  
Eventually she types, _Don't you know that everyone wants you to come back?_  
  
She stares at the sentence on her screen for a few moments, and then adds, _Whatever made you run off can't be THAT bad._  
  
Her finger brushes the return key.  
  
_I never even friended her,_ she thinks dully. _She might not see it._  
  
But she sends it, and she already knows that she'll be twitching to check up on the little box constantly, waiting for it to say _SEEN._

   
  


Victoria decides that she is primarily concerned with two things for the new semester: nailing the first Vortex Club party of the year, and securing her place as Mr. Jefferson's classroom assistant. She'd filled the spot after Rachel's disappearance. There's no reason why he shouldn't want her continued help.  
  
She shows up for that first class roughly minutes early with coffee. One summer away hasn't dulled her memory of his preference: black. But two and a half months suddenly feels like years when she opens the door and sees him again. He's at his desk, sitting at the edge of his chair, leaning over his laptop with the analytical expression that always drives her a little crazy.  
  
Even now — even a year in — Victoria still feels like she is in the presence of a god. Or just starstruck, but that doesn't feel nearly... _poetic_ enough.  
  
"Hi," she breathes.  
  
He looks up at her and smiles. She thinks, maybe, his face lights up a little.  
  
Maybe.  
  
"Hello, Victoria," he says. "Welcome back."  
  
"I got you coffee," she says, suddenly feeling somewhat shy. She crosses over to set it down on his desk. Mr. Jefferson reaches for it gratefully.  
  
"I needed this," he says. "I spent most of the summer travelling. Book tour." He groans. "Thought I had time to lay out the plans for this semester, but, well... I'm still catching up now, and class starts in, what, fifteen minutes?" He laughs self-deprecatingly.  
  
Victoria pulls out a chair from one of the desks and drags it over so that she can sit next to him. It's a bold thing to do, but boldness had gotten her this far with Mark Jefferson. One day, she will be going on those book tours _with_ him. As his protégé.  
  
"To be honest," she says, resting her chin in her hand, "you could ramble on about _anything_ and we'd all still be learning something."  
  
He laughs again over the coffee cup, steam billowing up around his face. "Nobody wants to hear me drone on about the nineties," he says.  
  
"I do," she says, although she doesn't really, because it's not her favorite era of photography at all, but she knows she'd be hanging onto every word anyway.  
  
"You _are_ my keenest student," he admits, and Victoria _glows_ , just lights up from the inside and all the way out.  
  
That's why, when class begins, Victoria expects that he'll want to see her afterwards so that they can talk about the work he'll be needing her assistance with this semester. Doing menial tasks isn't how she enjoys spending her free time, but it's for Mr. Jefferson. It's really just investing in her future.  
  
But that isn't how it goes. Towards the end of class, Mr. Jefferson says, "I'll be needing an assistant this semester."  
  
Victoria sits up straighter and stares. _What?_  
  
"It's volunteer only," he emphasizes as he strolls about the classroom. "Don't feel like you _have_ to, because most of you probably won't. Since Blackwell won't hire me a secretary..."  
  
The class's reception to this joke is lukewarm. Next to her, Taylor rolls her eyes, but Victoria is still staring. Isn't _she_ his assistant?  
  
A hand lifts.  
  
"Yes?" Mr. Jefferson asks.  
  
"I can help," says a quiet voice.  
  
The entire class, including Victoria, turns to look at the speaker. It's a girl with wispy hair swept into a bun on top of her head; she has downturned eyes and a softness about her mouth, and a stiff looking outfit that makes Victoria think that she must be sheltered. A gold cross gleams at her neck.  
  
Mr. Jefferson consults his class roster. "Kate Marsh, right?"  
  
"Yes," says the girl. She has her hands folded on the desk in front of her. "I'd be happy to volunteer." Her voice, although soft, is not shy.  
  
_You'd like to volunteer,_ mimics Victoria in her head, meanly. _Well, you can't._  
  
Except then Mr. Jefferson says, "Alright, Kate. Come see me after class, okay? We'll talk it over, see if the workload is something you'd want to take on."  
  
Oh.  
  
"Okay," says Kate. She smiles, sitting up a little straighter.  
  
If Mr. Jefferson notices Victoria's look of betrayal, he fails to acknowledge it. Taylor glances over at her. Victoria struggles to smother the hurt slashed across her face even as the bell rings and the class gets up to leave.  
  
_Rejection, right?_ she thinks to herself, and the whole thing is somewhat hysterical. _You're soooo used to that, right, Vic? A-fucking-mazing!_  
  
"Hey," says Taylor, leaning over. "What's up? You okay?"  
  
" _Yes_ , Taylor," snaps Victoria, jerking her chin up at her, forcing herself not to look as Kate walks over to Mr. Jefferson's desk. "What does it _look_ like—"  
  
A brown haired girl in an outfit that was surely procured from a thrift store nearly trips over Victoria's bag on the way out.  
  
"Watch where you're fucking going!" she snaps.  
  
The girl's eyes widen to comical proportions. It salves the fury just a little. Victoria bares her teeth at her. "Sorry!" she says, jumping back. She clutches her camera closer — holy shit, it's an ancient piece of junk, some kind of old Polaroid — and hurries on past.  
  
Taylor giggles and watches her go. "The new girls are gonna learn their places _real_ fast," she says, amused.  
  
"Yeah," says Victoria. She looks over at Kate Marsh, who has inadvertently pulled the rug out from beneath her feet. "They'll learn," she says. It's a vow.

   
  


"I still think the poster is gross," says Courtney with a sigh. "Like, for the first Vortex Club party? Of the _year_? Can you imagine what people have been thinking about it?"  
  
"The poster's fine," says Hayden defensively. "It's _fine_ , man. Look at it, it's awesome."  
  
"It, like, looks like a corpse being eaten by a tapeworm," says Courtney. " _So_ not the party-type mood."  
  
"No, it looks fucking cool," says Hayden. "It looks like an album cover."  
  
"No, it looks like—"  
  
" _Oh,_ my god!" Victoria interrupts. "Who fucking cares!" She snaps her fingers. "The party's starting in one hour. It's too late to change Hayden's stupid disco corpse design or whatever the hell it is."  
  
Hayden looks deeply affronted. "Disco corpse," he repeats. "Do you not recognize a _vortex_ when you see one? It's right in the middle, right in—"  
  
"Yes, right on top of the body," says Victoria. "Very inspired. Shut up, please."  
  
Courtney begins to snicker behind her hand. Hayden throws his in the air. "I'm gonna go pre-game," he says. "If either of you wants to come join me and hit it — wink, wink — I'll forgive you for being bitches."  
  
"That's not going to make anyone forgive _you_ for being the littlest bitch on the bitch squad," says Courtney.  
  
"Love you too, Court. Victoria?"  
  
"Go ask Taylor," she replies dismissively. She turns her attention back to the gymnasium. The DJ is still setting up his booth; there has been an issue with the sound check, and they keep running it through only to get no feedback through the speakers. It's starting to abrade her nerves.  
  
But it eventually starts to come together. At least she still has control of the Vortex Club.  
  
The first month at Blackwell has been a slow one, and now, without a legitimate excuse to see Mr. Jefferson after class every day, Victoria has no outlet for her frustration. She still hasn't touched her camera beyond procuring her entry for the photography contest that he has been pushing on all of them. Kate Marsh may have stolen her spot as his assistant, but the Everyday Heroes contest is something that Victoria is certain she can win.  
  
And then he'll have no excuse not to survey her work, not to spend time with her, not to look at her.  
  
But for now, she has the Vortex Club, and within its spiral, she is still the unequivocal queen.  
  
If anyone's first month has been rougher than hers, it's Nathan's. She knows he's already been reprimanded more than once; she's heard something about him throwing a desk at a teacher. And he's still twitching, constantly rolling on something. But he's been _consistent_ , at least, and she can't complain about that. He's been present whenever she's wanted to hang out, whether it's lunch time or after classes or anything in between. People move out of the way when they walk down the halls. It feels good. She anticipates his arrival tonight, but even as their peers begin to filter in to the party, Nathan is nowhere to be found. Victoria keeps to the VIP section as the DJ starts to settle into his set, her hands glued to her phone.  
  
"Where the hell is Nathan?" Courtney appears from the shadows, shouting over the bass. "He said he'd sell me weed tonight."  
  
"I don't know," says Victoria, agitated. Courtney offers her her cup. It's incredibly acrid going down, making her head spin, and she already wants more.  
  
Nathan still isn't around by the time Zachary sidles up to her. He's clearly ten times more wasted than she is and approximately a hundred times more interested. He sits down next to her on the couch — way too close, his thigh touching hers — and leans right in. Victoria leans right out. His face is way closer than she'd like it to be. More than that—  
  
"Where the hell is Juliet?" she asks him, irritated.  
  
"Dunno," says Zachary, his voice a sloshy mess. "Shhhe told me you wouldn't... With the innerview..." He grins, fingers dancing. "Shut her down."  
  
"Oh," says Victoria. "Right." She'd nearly forgotten all about Juliet Watson's Vortex Club article. She'd fielded a dozen texts and e-mails and in-person confrontations over the past couple of weeks, and it had started to piss her off. Juliet had come to her saying that she hoped to present an ' _objective view_ ' of the club, to which Victoria had replied that she was no fucking idiot. There's no such thing as real objectivity, and she's always known Juliet — who is _in_ the club — to be a gossipy bitch.  
  
She'd tried to intervene, but even with Prescott influence, there was to be no interfering with the _Blackwell Totem_. Victoria plans on making Juliet pay dearly for her article.  
  
"You know," says Zach. "I always... always liked you. Always thought you were cute..."  
  
Victoria looks him over. Despite his bulk, he's still got baby fat on his face. The middle school holdover haircut isn't doing him any favors, either. Zach is what passes for _hot_ here at Blackwell, at least according to most of the other girls. She sits there dully examining him as though he is an exhibit in the Chase Space, placard and all.  
  
_He's into you,_ Nathan had told her once last year, unprompted. His expression had been pure disdain.  
  
Juliet _does_ have it coming to her.  
  
"How about this," she says finally, slowly. "You have my number, right?"  
  
"Yeah..."  
  
"Text me later," Victoria says sweetly. She lowers her eyes, peers up at him through her lashes, purses her lips just so.  
  
"Uh," says Zach, "you— you wanna meet up later?" He looks slightly nervous about the prospect, as though he hadn't expected his advance to work out in any capacity. It's not going to, either, but he doesn't need to know that.  
  
"Maybe," Victoria replies, even though the answer is really a hard _no._ She gets up from the couch.  
  
She is fetching herself a fourth drink when Taylor finally finds her. There's a look on her face that immediately lets Victoria know that she has something incredibly juicy to share, and Taylor doesn't let her down.  
  
"Guess who's here," Taylor challenges her, breathless with the news, so excited by it that she can't help but give the answer away immediately: "Kate Marsh!"  
  
"S-sorry?" Victoria coughs into her drink.  
  
Is Taylor talking about the same Kate Marsh that Victoria is thinking of? The one with the abstinence club posters and the cross around her throat and the assistant position she'd stolen from Victoria? _That_ Kate Marsh?  
  
"See for yourself," says Taylor. "Sista is like, _impossible_ to miss. She's fucking _sloppy_!"  
  
Victoria knocks back the rest of her drink and lets Taylor take her hand.  
  
Taylor is not wrong. Kate Marsh is a mess. Victoria is well on her way to wasted, so it's hard to properly gauge where Kate is, exactly, but it's not hard to see that she's liquefied. The sight of Kate beneath the neon lights with flushed cheeks and an unbuttoned shirt with half a drink slopped down the front is so fucking absurd that Victoria starts laughing again.  
  
_No way,_ she thinks. _No way is Kate really like this._ But she's looking the evidence right in the eyes, and Kate really _is_ like this, apparently.  
  
"Hey!" says Victoria as warmly as she can, brushing a hand against Kate's shoulder.  
  
Kate's head jerks up and to the side. She stares at Victoria with bleary eyes, and then she smiles, sways where she stands. The dampness on her clothes is faintly pink, and the fabric clings to her undershirt. "Victoria," she says. "Victoria Chase... right?" She slurs the _Chase_ , her tongue going dead on the _ch_ sound. Kate reaches out and grips her by the arm. "Hi."  
  
"That's right," says Victoria, patting Kate on the shoulder. "I didn't know you were secretly such a lush!"  
  
"A lush?" Kate repeats, sweetly confused.  
  
Victoria rolls her eyes. This is just embarrassing. "What have you been drinking? Or are you amped on something? What's your secret?"  
  
"Just... just wine," says Kate, but the confused pause in her answer makes Victoria wonder. She looks her over. Kate isn't dressed for a party— not that Victoria really thinks she owns many party clothes. But she certainly isn't dressed like someone who wants to get totally hammered. She's in her usual blouse and sweater, even if they're all rumpled and out of place now. Who the hell invited her? Who is she _with?_  
  
"Well," says Victoria, letting a breath out. Does the reason why Kate is here matter? Who fucking cares? It'll be a hilarious story to tell later. "It's, like, _so_ cool to see you letting loose."  
  
The alcohol in her system has rendered her thoughts hazy, but she's certain that Kate has manufactured this situation somehow. This has to be deliberate. Everyone has two sides; Victoria knows that better than anybody else. Kate knows what she's doing with Mr. Jefferson, knows what she's doing with her preachy abstinence posters, knows what she's doing even now.  
  
Kate is just another hypocrite, just like nearly everybody else Victoria has ever known.  
  
When she and Taylor later find Kate on the laps and in the arms of other people, Victoria knows that she was right, and that feeling — of being right, of being justified — compels her to want to document it. Why shouldn't she? She doesn't want to forget seeing the kind of hypocrite that Kate Marsh really is.  
  
Victoria is drunk enough that Taylor has to unlock her phone for her so that she can take a video. Kate doesn't even notice the recording light shoved right in her face.  
  
Through the small screen of her phone, the sight is grotesque and hypnagogic, a blur of dull colors and shifting light patterns, like the surrealist art films Nathan has collected on his shelves. But it's still clear enough to see exactly what is happening and who it is happening to.  
  
By the time Kate moves onto the fifth person, the sadism Victoria has snapped on like a camera lens is dislodged by the Grand Guignol spectacle of it all. She lowers her phone and staggers back, backing right into Taylor. In front of her Kate is squirming against some guy, and she's not quite on time with the music, and it's suddenly way too fucking much to look at, making her nauseous. She grabs onto Taylor's sleeve. "I'm done," she says.  
  
"But—" starts Taylor.  
  
"Come _on_ ," says Victoria, and it's so much harder than she wants it to be to rip her eyes away from the sight of Kate Marsh coming apart at the seams.  
  
As they brush past the curtain leading out of the VIP area, someone blasts through, nearly knocking them both over. She opens her mouth to berate whoever it is, but it's Nathan. He's already reaching over to steady her.  
  
"You almost fucking bulldozed me," she spits, but she's glad for the distraction. The vision of Kate writhing in that pit of snakes is coiling in her guts.  
  
"Hey," says Nathan. He lets go of her and reaches up to smear his hand against his mouth and nose, blinking.  
  
It doesn't take more than a second of staring at him to get it, as drunk as she is. "Be careful," she says, a little too loudly. "Kate's on the _prowl_. Or whatever."  
  
"What?" Nathan's head jerks to the side, his blacked out eyes staring past her.  
  
"She's, like," Victoria forces a laugh. "She's fucking wasted. Who got her high?"  
  
"Did you sell her ecstasy?" Taylor adds, teasing.  
  
But Nathan doesn't seem to hear the questions. He reaches up to rub his nose again, shoulders going rigid. Victoria recognizes it even though Taylor doesn't: he's freaked out. But she doesn't know why, and she's far from sober, so all she manages to say is, "We took a video—"  
  
"I have to go," Nathan interjects, and he almost collides with her again as he rushes off.  
  
"That," says Taylor as they watch him go, "is the _last guy on Earth_ who should be doing coke."  
  
"I know," says Victoria numbly.  
  
Taylor always seems to notice when her mood plummets, and it's the fact that she never tries to deduce _why_ that Victoria is so fond of her. "Look what _I've_ got," she says, reaching into her purse. She pulls out a bottle of wine. "The bartender's not going to miss it."  
  
"Let's go," says Victoria immediately.  
  
They sit together outside on the quad, working their way through the bottle of wine and scrolling through their Instagram feeds to catch up on the photos their peers have been posting from the party still raging inside the gymnasium. Eventually, they both come back to the video on Victoria's phone.  
  
She hits _PLAY_.  
  
It's suddenly a lot funnier out here, with time and distance between the both of them and Kate Marsh. Victoria can feel the humor in it again as she stares down at the screen. It's pretty fucking funny, right? Who _wouldn't_ find this hilarious, given Kate's typical presentation? And, really, she tells herself: there's nothing worse than a hypocrite.  
  
At least Victoria _knows_ what kind of person she is. She's never pretended otherwise. Not like Kate.  
  
"Wouldn't it be hilarious if I shared this?"  
  
" _Do_ it," says Taylor, half encouragement, half challenge.  
  
It takes no more than a couple of minutes. Victoria has just finished uploading the video and posting it on the Vortex Club Facebook page when a text message from Juliet comes in.  
  
_So sorry you wouldn't let me interview you. But the article will be out on Monday! I hope you'll like it._  
  
Taylor looks down at it, as well. "What an effing skank," she says.  
  
Victoria thinks back to Zachary earlier. She scowls. "I'll take care of it," she mumbles, tucking her phone away, and then she staggers to her feet. "I'm done partying for tonight."  
  
On the way back to the dormitory, Victoria tears down another Rachel Amber poster. She realizes that she's still clutching at it when she reaches her room. Rachel stares up at her from between her fingers.  
  
Like she's saying, _I see you._  
  
There is a red marker on her work desk. Victoria uses it to slash a giant _X_ over each of Rachel's eyes.

   
  


Her phone sounds an alert seven times before Victoria gives up trying to sleep past it.  
  
"It's fucking Saturday morning!" she screams into her pillow, flinging an arm out for it.  
  
Her lock screen is full of notifications. It's startling enough to cool the anger somewhat. She opens the first; it's from Taylor.  
  
_Vic, that video we took of Kate is V-I-R-A-L._  
  
Victoria just stares uncomprehendingly. Her head hurts; she knows she's hungover. Viral? Taylor has to be fucking joking, right? She pulls up the Vortex Club's page to see for herself and is stunned at what she finds. The video's been shared hundreds of times already. When she refreshes the page a few seconds later, the numbers jump up by double digits.  
  
Scrolling through the comments, there are a lot of names that Victoria recognizes, but many that she doesn't. Complete strangers. The consensus seems to be that the video is either hilarious or hot or awful. Victoria hesitates, and then hits _PLAY_ and watches it again.  
  
With sobriety on her side, it's so gratuitous it almost looks fake, like a performance piece. Victoria wonders if Kate has seen it. She's probably got the hangover of a fucking lifetime right now, but now that everybody knows her secret, maybe she'll try to join the Vortex Club. Not that Victoria would let her in.  
  
She sits upright in bed to text Taylor back.  
  
_LMFAO I CANT BELIEVE THIS HAVE U SEEN THE VIEWS_  
  
Taylor's reply arrives immediately. _Yes!! We should have called it something funny like BLACKWELL HOEDOWN._  
  
Victoria laughs aloud as she climbs out of bed to start getting dressed. She volleys texts from Courtney and Taylor and messages to the Vortex Club page as gets ready. Courtney comes up with a genius idea: _MAKE IT A WEBPAGE!!!!_  
  
Saturdays tend to run differently for different students. Some, like Dana — where _was_ Dana at the party last night, Victoria wonders? — use them for extracurriculars. Others, like Nathan, tend to take the entire day off. Today he's right outside of the dorms, sitting with a very hungover Hayden, who is curled in upon himself. Victoria wedges herself in between them. Hayden doesn't even acknowledge her presence; his headache seems to be dominating his senses. Nathan's eyes are right on her, though.  
  
It's blatantly clear that he hasn't slept well— or at all, maybe. Victoria reaches out to push his hair out of his eyes. His forehead is sweaty. "You look gross," she pronounces, pulling her hand away. "You need a shower."  
  
"Thanks," says Nathan tiredly. "I know."  
  
His face is always so gentle when it's weary. She bumps her shoulder into his, trying to tamp down the burst of affection. "So," she says. "Did you see Kate's video?"  
  
He goes still. "Kate's video?" he repeats.  
  
"On the Vortex Club page," says Victoria, pulling out her phone. She already has the video up; all she needs to do is play it. She watches his face instead of the screen as it runs through. Nathan is completely without expression. He barely blinks. He's not laughing; she wonders why. The video is not even halfway through before he pulls his head up, like he's seen enough.  
  
"Who do you think gave her whatever she was on?" Victoria finally says, tilting her head up towards the sky. "She totally had to know what she was doing, right?"  
  
Nathan winds his fingers together in his lap. "Dunno," he says.  
  
"...It wasn't you?"  
  
Sure, Nathan isn't the only student dealing drugs on campus, but he's the easiest source— the best way to not get in trouble about it. His dealing is well known to both students and faculty, and his name keeps him protected. Who else would be worth risking going to?  
  
"The End of the World party," says Nathan out of nowhere.  
  
"Huh?" The topic change throws her off a little.  
  
"Next week," he says, drumming his fingers against his thighs. "It's mine."  
  
Right. The End of the World. It's an idea she and Nathan have been going over for a while— a total rager, _the_ final word in Vortex Club parties. Nathan's got them hooked up with a popular DJ— he'd been paid off to cancel a different show on the same date just to come. It's going to be huge, if it all goes correctly.  
  
"Yeah. I think everyone knows you're not going to let them down," says Victoria, straightening the delicate necklace beneath her collar. "It's going to be fucking awesome."  
  
Next to her, Hayden groans. "Hey, Nate?" he says, muffled against his knees. "I need water. Or to puke again. Or both, probably."  
  
Nathan lets his breath out slow and stuttery, looking at Victoria with an expression somewhere between relieved and apologetic. It would be a strange look on anyone else, but on Nathan, it's typical.  
  
"Go babysit. I'll catch you later." It's not like she has a choice. She gives Nathan a little push on the shoulder. There are two things she needs to get done today, anyway: the first is to pick up her mail. The second is to print the final version of her Everyday Heroes contest entry.  
  
Blackwell's mail room has only two things waiting for her— the first is a box, which must be the figure she'd coveted back in middle school at the height of her isolation, something she'd finally ordered on a whim one night. The second is a slim envelope. She picks it up and turns it over carefully. The return address is for the Kroft Gallery.  
  
_Oh._ Victoria isn't sure if she actually wants to open it. She'd submitted her photo in a fit of impulse at the end of last semester. It's weighed on her mind constantly since then.  
  
She knows that she should wait until she is back in her room, but Victoria opens it right then and there, sliding a fingernail beneath the seal and peeling it back.  
  
_Dear Ms. Chase,_ it begins. _Not compatible with our mission statement,_ it ends.  
  
The hurt and humiliation is familiar, and she hates that it is, that she can feel this embarrassed and ashamed by something when she isn't even in its presence, when she's alone and shielded from the heat of hearing it directly. She reads the letter over two more times.  
  
"What a fucking shocker," she says beneath her breath.  
  
She's not going to cry over it. She's not a child any more. Instead, she folds the letter carefully back into the envelope and puts it in her purse.  
  
As she stands over the printer in the photography lab, Victoria tells herself that she cannot — _should_ not — pin her hopes on the Everyday Heroes contest. _Winning it won't make you a better photographer,_ she tells herself, _and losing it won't make you worse._ She knows that this is logical, that it's the truth— but that doesn't really matter. What matters is that she's desperate to win it anyway.  
  
It's not entirely for the exposure. It's not for the chance to have her work be exhibited in San Francisco. It's not even for the opportunity to spend extended alone time with Mark Jefferson, although that's a factor, too.  
  
She has something to prove. To who, she has no idea. But she _has_ to.  
  
The photo she has selected for entry isn't her best work. She's certain that it encompasses the themes of the contest, but she knows that she's not the only talented student in Mr. Jefferson's class. She knows that if Nathan ever chose to enter, he would win without question. After all of her compounded time and effort, Mr. Jefferson seems to view her no differently, which hurts more than all of the rejection letters she's ever received combined.  
  
If she has talent — if photography is really worth pursuing, if she hasn't wasted her entire life on this dream — she needs something to let her know. A sign. A signal. She has to win. Just this once.  
  
Just one victory.

   
  


The video explodes in views once it has its own domain to access, and by Sunday morning, something else has multiplied, too: the graffiti on campus.  
  
But it's not the usual stuff. All of it is about Kate Marsh, and all of it is incredibly vulgar. Victoria is reminded, faintly, of the things she used to scrawl about Rachel around campus, but what people are writing about Kate is somehow even worse. Even the slate outside of her door has been defaced. Victoria looks it over with mild amusement and wonders how the viral star herself is handling her fifteen minutes of fame. But she has more important things to do than find out.  
  
_Will you look at my contest entry before i submit it?_ she texts Nathan.  
  
_ya sure_ is his reply. _im in parking lot. u wanna come to 2 whales?_  
  
_Wait up for me. you can eat later,_ she writes.  
  
Nathan accepts this order without question. As expected, he is still there, leaning into the side of his truck, by the time Victoria arrives with her print in a folder.  
  
"Here," she says by way of greeting, handing it over.  
  
Nathan takes it, slipping the photo free. He handles it by the corners, balancing them carefully between his fingertips. For once, his hands are steady, like he knows that this is important to her and is trying twice as hard. She's reminded of why she stays.  
  
"Composition's really good," he says down at it. "Framing... Nnh. Uh. A little skewed. I think that's what you were going for, though, right?"  
  
Victoria stiffens. "Not really," she says.  
  
Nathan sucks his lower lip back past his teeth. "Sorry. It looks intentional, though."  
  
"Thanks, I think?" says Victoria. Irritation is easier to wear than uncertainty. There's no way in hell that she's letting anyone know that she thinks her work is anything but perfect— not even her best friend.  
  
"Your subject's good," he says. "Natural." He holds the folder back out to her, and she notices now that he still looks sleepless— haunted, maybe. He folds his arms across his chest. "He'll pick you," he says, fingers rattling on his ribs.  
  
Victoria holds the photo close to her body. "Right. _Naturally._ I wouldn't put out anything but my best work."  
  
Nathan looks at her. "It's just a stupid contest."  
  
"Uh, I _know._ " She goes taut.  
  
"There's gonna be other contests," says Nathan. His voice is flat and toneless. "Maybe— maybe you shouldn't bother with this one. It's basic shit."  
  
A surge of annoyance flickers through her. "Thanks for the advice, Mr. Dropout." She latches her purse shut and looks at him, narrowing her eyes. Why the hell does he care whether or not she wants to enter? Maybe Everyday Heroes isn't a big deal — god knows that she's aware that her work will be lost among dozens of others at the exhibition — but that's not what matters.  
  
Nathan hesitates, and then he relents. "Whatever. You got this. You're," he says, and then looks her over as he reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes, "you." He fumbles with the last word, somehow manages to stutter that single syllable.  
  
Victoria turns away uncomfortably, because suddenly she's thinking of that cold, rainy winter, about Nathan saying _You're not like everyone else,_ moments before he'd almost kissed her. And then she thinks about the time that he _had_ , how solid and warm he'd been above her, and then the way he'd pulled back, going _I'm sorry._  
  
She draws her eyes over the quad and is distracted by shouting voices.  
  
"Going to church to repent, Kate?"  
  
"Grind up on Jesus for us!"  
  
"Are you going to get down in confession?"  
  
Kate Marsh is walking with her head down towards the bus stop, dragging her feet past a group of students who are clearly enjoying jeering at her. Victoria is desperate for something else to focus on, and she loses herself in the sight, her mouth twitching. Kate looks so _ashamed_ of herself. And she _should_ be, she thinks, after that disgusting display of depravity on Friday night.  
  
"She's all upset 'cause everyone saw her slutty side," she says with a snort.  
  
Next to her, Nathan just stares down at the truck keys in his hand. 

   
  


During Monday's photography class, Victoria's phone goes off for the fourth time, distracting her from staring at a just-sleeping Max Caulfield, when Mr. Jefferson is talking about color and chiaroscuro and Taylor is hurling a note at Kate Marsh's head. She doesn't need to look to know that it's Zach trying to get a hold of her. She assumes that Juliet has received her message by now about Dana and her boyfriend. _Good._ Both Juliet and Zach deserve this, especially after the debut of Juliet's bullshit _Is The Vortex Club... A Cult?_ article this morning. As for Dana— _Whatever_ , Victoria thinks. She's never given much of a shit about her.  
  
She volunteers an answer about Diane Arbus, and Mr. Jefferson seems quite pleased with her. Victoria is ready to discuss it more — she probably talks more in this class than any other student — when the sound of a shutter interrupts her.  
  
The entire class turns to stare at Max. Victoria's immediate instinct is to feel pissed off, because Max has been dozing nearly all throughout the class, and Mr. Jefferson has been _letting_ her. She hasn't failed to notice, over the past month, that he is unusually soft on the new girl; she remembers seeing Evan fall asleep in last year's class and clearly recalls the dressing down Mr. Jefferson had given him in front of everyone. But not Max. It's as if he hasn't seen her, but she knows that that can't be true. He's _tolerating_ it, just like how he tolerates the way that she's so _quiet_ , and is always trying to engage her even if she never has anything to contribute to the discussion.  
  
Victoria cannot, in any way, figure out _why._ Even now, instead of scolding her, Mr. Jefferson sets in on the subject of self-portraits and praises Max's _gift_.  
  
A _gift_? Fucking _really_? It's just a selfie. Jealousy brews deep in her guts; revulsion overwhelms, and she needs a place to direct it. She turns in her chair and glares, pointedly, at Max.  
  
They've never really spoken before, even though Victoria knows her name and her room number — they're more or less neighbors — and half her class schedule. It's not as though she ever goes out of her way to mingle much outside of her clique, but Max is beyond quiet. She's practically a ghost, sitting in her desk at the back of the room day in and day out, barely volunteering answers or discussion. Victoria can't get a read on her, and that's frustrating. She only knows what she's seen and what she's observed— and she doesn't like what she's found. Or what Mr. Jefferson has apparently found.  
  
"Now, Max," Mr. Jefferson starts, "since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you _please_ tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?"  
  
Victoria knows the answer instantaneously, and she is absolutely certain that Max has no idea— the look on her face makes that clear. Although the question is not directed at her, she lifts her hand to answer.  
  
But she's wrong about Max, who just sits up a little straighter and says, calmly, "The Daguerreian process. Invented by a French painter named... Louis Daguerre. Around 1830." Her pronunciation of the French terms is far from perfect, but the fact that she knows the answer at all both shocks and infuriates Victoria, especially when Mr. Jefferson responds with genuine, unfiltered pride. He's practically beaming at her.  
  
Victoria huffs in disbelief and leans back in her chair to look at Max again, trying to will her to turn and meet her gaze. But for whatever reason, Max won't do it, elevating her place on Victoria's lengthy shitlist to the upper tiers.  
  
What the fuck is Mr. Jefferson so impressed by?  
  
_You're just another cutesy hipster bitch,_ she thinks angrily. _You're not special._  
  
When class lets out, the only person that doesn't get up immediately is Kate Marsh, who stays right where she is by the window. She looks so down on herself that Victoria wonders if she'll be resigning from her position as classroom assistant. She certainly wouldn't complain if she did. She's had all of this coming to her, after all— nobody _forced_ Kate to behave so badly, Victoria reasons with herself. The video's still making its rounds on the internet, and now that class has started again for the week, it's begun to spread by word of mouth, too. There are still plenty of people on campus who haven't seen the video, but Victoria assumes that that will be changing soon with or without her promoting.  
  
She gets up to review her submitted photo with Mr. Jefferson. She'd turned it in before class, so she knows he's seen it. She just wants to be sure that he knows how much work she's put into it— and maybe procure herself a way out of this week's homework, because it's too much for her to deal with right now.  
  
He's not really making it easy on her, and she's trying to soften him up a little, leaning over his desk in a way that she hopes looks cute and effortless. It seems to be going well until Max comes up to interrupt. She is forced to stand there and listen, _again,_ as Mr. Jefferson praises her, like she's some kind of visionary. Watching them interact is nauseating.  
  
Victoria doesn't get it at all. What the hell does he see in her retro selfies? She'd gotten over Max's ' _technique_ ' within the first week. There's no skill whatsoever involved in operating an instant camera, the very definition of 'point and shoot'. Wouldn't a genius like him _know_ that already?  
  
It's not like Max is even confident in her gimmick. Even now, even faced with Mr. Jefferson's encouraging smile, she looks like she's ready to bolt. But there's something about her that Victoria can't put her finger on. Something magnetizing. She doesn't like the feeling at all.  
  
The moment Max leaves, Victoria suppresses the desire to say something disparaging and turns back to Mr. Jefferson. " _Anyway,_ " she says, a little loudly, "okay. I'll submit the homework. But..."  
  
Mr. Jefferson's eyes linger after Max, and he only looks at her once the door is closed. "But?" he prompts.  
  
Oh, that's _it._ Victoria knows exactly what she wants to ask him now. It's an idea that she has entertained only fleetingly in the past, but it seems apt, suddenly.  
  
"But I wanted to ask you a favor," she says. "I'm trying to..." She frowns, halting for a moment. "Look, I'm trying to put a portfolio together. I was hoping you could... help me out or look it over, or something."  
  
"That's fine," he says evenly, which shocks her.  
  
It's fine? He's willing to assist with her portfolio? Just like that?  
  
The expression on her face must reveal her astonishment, because he laughs a little— it's warm and low, making her blush. "We'll make some time this week," he promises. "I appreciate your initiative. It's what I like to see."  
  
"Okay," she manages, still speechless. "Yeah— I mean, of course. Any time you're available."  
  
As she excuses herself and heads out onto the grounds to meet with Courtney and Taylor, Victoria is elated. She finds her friends at the dormitory as the loudspeakers buzz to life all around them.  
  
"Would Nathan Prescott please come to the front office? Thank you," says Wells's staticky voice.  
  
"Nate's in trouble _again?_ " muses Courtney as Victoria approaches. They all settle down on the steps, dropping their purses to the side. Victoria stretches her legs out and lounges.  
  
"Do you think he set off more fireworks?" Taylor giggles.  
  
Victoria wonders about it, but not for long, because Max Caulfield is standing in front of her a few minutes later, staring at her expectantly. Hasn't she had more than fucking enough of her today already?  
  
But how cute. She wants to go inside. Unfortunately for her, Victoria isn't ready to let any of that bullshit in the classroom — or Mr. Jefferson's constant praise — go. She's not willing to ignore it any more, even if the dwindling reasonable part of her knows that she should tell herself that Max isn't worth the fuss.  
  
"Oh, look," she coos. "It's Max Caulfield, the selfie ho of Blackwell." She gets up. She has a few inches on Max, so it's easy to lean over her, to circle her like she's just a prey animal. "What a lame gimmick," she sighs. "Even _Mark_ — Mr. Jefferson — falls for your waif hipster bullshit." She lifts her voice into a nasally tremble as she crosses her arms. "' _The Daguerreian Process, sir!_ ' You could barely even say that. I guess you got your meds filled."  
  
Taylor and Courtney burst into laughter beside her as Max's face flashes hurt, fueling the sense of superiority that Victoria is so desperate to maintain. She moves to sit back down again.  
  
"Since you know all the answers," she says calmly, "I guess you have to find another way into the dorm. We ain't moving."  
  
Max's chin dips towards her chest. She looks so _pathetic._ A portrait of disappointment. She's not even saying anything. It pisses Victoria off. There's nothing interesting about her. What the hell makes her so special, so worthy of her idol's attention?  
  
"Oh, wait!" She reaches for her phone. "Hold that pose." Max doesn't even flinch away as she takes the photo— she's either slow or scared or both. _Hilarious._ This outlet for her frustration soothes her slightly. " _So_ original," she sighs dreamily. "Don't worry, Max. I'll put a vintage filter on it right before I post it all over social medias. Now, why don't you go fuck your selfie?"  
  
This last remark is what finally causes Max to unfreeze. Victoria expects her to finally say something— to attempt to hurl back an insult, to apologize, _something_ , but she doesn't. Instead, she just gives Victoria a lingering look and then turns away.  
  
_What the hell?_ she thinks, stunned. For some reason, it feels like déjà vu. It feels like...  
  
It's just like...  
  
_Rachel,_ she realizes with a shock. The unflinching refusal to rise to her challenge is an explicit reminder of Rachel.  
  
"Wow," says Taylor as they watch Max retreat. "She is _so_ fucking weird."  
  
" _Beyond_ weird," agrees Courtney.  
  
" _Fuck_ her," seethes Victoria, whose head is still reeling. "I'm going to make sure she learns _fast_ that she's _not_ spec—"  
  
The sprinklers next to the steps suddenly explode, drenching all three of them in water. Taylor screams. Victoria leaps to her feet, yelping, trying to shield her clothes.  
  
"What the hell?! Are you kidding?! Look at this!"  
  
"Chill, Victoria," says Taylor worriedly, as Courtney reaches a hand out to comfort her. "It's just water—"  
  
Victoria whips Courtney's hand off of her shoulder, not wanting to be touched, and rounds on Taylor. "Yeah, water on my _cashmere_! Do you know how much this _fucking_ outfit cost?!"  
  
"You look... great," says Taylor timidly.  
  
"I can't even chill on the steps!" Nothing has gone right for her today apart from extracting a promise from Mr. Jefferson about her portfolio. At least Max isn't here to see her humiliation. She just has to go and get changed now and see if she can still save her sweater—  
  
She hears the bucket break before it falls completely. The custodian's can of white paint hits the pavement before she even turns around fully, and in less than a second, she's drenched in it.  
  
"No way! No fucking way!" she shrieks, horrified. It's _everywhere_. She can feel it dripping down her back and on her hair and her face.  
  
"You okay, Victoria?" gasps Courtney.  
  
Samuel hurries down the ladder, apologizing profusely. Victoria backs off from both him and from her friends, hands up in front of herself, her head ringing like a siren. "Get the _hell_ away from me, weirdo!" She feels disgusting— the paint is soaking right through her clothes and sticking them to her skin. Things like this aren't supposed to happen to people like her. Why her? Why _today?_  
  
"Hold on, hold on, we'll get some towels... we'll be right back!" vows Courtney, and she and Taylor are already on the move.  
  
"So move your ass before I dry!" Victoria says miserably. What she really wants is not a towel— what she wants is to get into a shower and stay there for a good few hours. She sits back down on the steps as Courtney and Taylor disappear into the dorms and draws her knees to her chest.  
  
This is a bad omen for the rest of the week, isn't it? Victoria can already sense that now. She's staring down at her hands when a pair of scuffed up sneakers appear in her line of sight.  
  
"Uh," says a soft voice. "Hey, Victoria..."  
  
She jerks her head up, but she already knows who it is. Great. She saw everything, didn't she? Max must be laughing her ass off right now. Karma, right? Victoria wants to grab the empty paint can and swing it at her head.  
  
" _What_ do you want, Max?" she says in as cold a tone as she can manage. She is going to keep her head held high even while soaked in paint. Max Caulfield isn't allowed to _ever_ think that she is better than Victoria Chase.  
  
"I _am_ sorry," says Max hesitantly. She looks awkward standing there— kind of harmless, really. The dozing wallflower in the classroom again. "That's an awesome cashmere coat..."  
  
That is not the response she expected at all. A camera in her face, sure. But not... whatever _this_ is. Victoria is wary of it. She stares down at herself, suddenly unable to meet Max's eyes.  
  
"It was," she says cautiously. "But there will be another."  
  
There's an uncomfortable pause. Max shifts. "Well, you always seem to know how to pick the right outfits," she mumbles.  
  
Victoria looks past her, beyond her to where Alyssa is sitting on the bench. The tension has begun to seep out of her. She doesn't think Max is playing her, which is surprising, because that goes completely against her expectations of everyone and everything at this school, and it _definitely_ goes against her expectations of someone who apparently has what it takes to become teacher's pet without even trying. "I do have _some_ talent," she admits. "Mr. Jefferson told me—"  
  
"I've seen your pictures," Max interrupts. "You have a great eye. Richard Avedon-esque."  
  
Heat rises to her cheeks. The compliment lowers her guard for a moment, blunts her edges. _Avedon-esque_. She swallows.  
  
"He's one of my heroes," she says. "Thanks, Max." She finds herself easing up a fraction, and, suddenly uncomfortable with the bizarre friendliness of the conversation, turns to look over her shoulder, huffing. "I hope those sluts get me a towel before they hang a sign on me."  
  
Max puts her hands together demurely, looking down at the ground, and Victoria stares at her. She lets her breath out, tries to clear her mind.  
  
She seems... alright. Almost like someone Victoria might be able to tolerate hanging out with. Certainly someone she wouldn't mind having another conversation with. Just about photography, of course. She knows _Avedon,_ after all. Maybe she's not such clueless point-and-shoot hipster.  
  
Victoria hesitates, and then she reaches for her phone. "You deserve a better shot," she admits, and it _should_ be hard to say, but somehow, it's not. "Sorry about blocking you, and... and the 'go fuck your selfie.'" She unlocks her phone to draw up the picture she'd taken. Her finger hovers over the _delete_ button for only a moment before she presses it. It's surprisingly cathartic to watch it disappear.  
  
"That _was_ mean," says Max, but then she smiles, and it goes all the way up to her eyes, making them crinkle softly. "But pretty funny."  
  
"Just... one of those days, you know?" murmurs Victoria. Max's smile prompts her to smile, too.  
  
"I know _exactly_ what you mean, Victoria," says Max firmly. "I'll see you later."  
  
"Au revoir," Victoria replies, and she slides away from the door to allow Max to pass. When it shuts, she is surprised to realize that the encounter was relatively painless.  
  
_Not quite like Rachel,_ she thinks. But not entirely unalike, either.  
  
But she's not about to start hanging out with Max Caulfield. At the end of the day, Victoria is still Vortex Club royalty, and Max is still an outcast. Still _competition._ She came to Blackwell with a reputation to build and then uphold and a goal to forcibly see through to its end. Max would only impede her.  
  
It's almost a shame, really. She doesn't think she's ever discussed Avedon before with anyone but Nathan or Mr. Jefferson.  
  
Taylor and Courtney burst through the doors. "Sorry! We had trouble finding a clean one," stammers Courtney. Victoria reaches for it, throwing it over her shoulders.  
  
"Whatever," she says dismissively. "Help me soak this shit up so I can get to the showers without dripping everywhere, thanks."  
  
Later, after she has finished showering and is stepping out of the stall waving the steam away, Victoria reaches for her phone, which she has left on the sink. The spread of Kate's video seems to be slowing down, but the hit counter is still rising pretty steadily. She stares at it.  
  
_Maybe I should have deleted this, too,_ she thinks.  
  
But it's out of her hands now, and part of her is still convinced that Kate has earned every bit of it. Victoria Chase is not about to turn around and regret any one of her decisions. She _can't_. She's not Nathan. She has to keep her eyes on the future. Some things can't be changed.  
  
Including the fact that she can never be friends with Max Caulfield. Victoria sends her a text to let her know, just in case she gets any ideas, and then she puts her phone away and doesn't think about Max or Kate or Rachel at all.

   
  


The sun is already on its way down by the time Victoria heads out to grab something to eat from the cafeteria. The bulletin board in front of the school has spawned a new Rachel poster where there definitely wasn't one this morning. It's completely redundant: there's already a poster there. Victoria pauses in front of it, staring, before she reaches out to peel it off.  
  
"Wherever I go, there you are," she says to Rachel's unresponsive, unflinching face. Rachel just smiles back. Victoria hurls the paper to the ground as hard as she can and then reaches for the other, except then something lands on her face.  
  
And on her hair. And her shoulders. It's all around her. She looks up.  
  
It's snowing.  
  
"What," she says, "the hell?"  
  
It's coming down all around her, light and fluffy and Christmas card perfect— and completely and utterly fucking alien. It rarely snows in Arcadia Bay, let alone in October. Victoria keeps her face tipped up towards the sky, too stunned to do much else. It's been a weird fucking day.  
  
After a moment, she comes to. Rachel's remaining poster doesn't seem all that important now. She walks through the snowfall, staring as it melts when it hits the ground. The quad is mostly empty, but there is a lone person sitting at one of the tables.  
  
Nathan. She isn't surprised to see him here. He has a tendency to be present at the strangest moments. He's hunched over, turning his camera over in his hands, examining it. Whatever he's doing has him completely absorbed, and he doesn't notice her at all, not even when she slides onto the seat across from him. She watches him in silence as the snow comes down on his shoulders. Several seconds pass.  
  
"Ground control to Major Tom," she says.  
  
His head snaps up to look at her. "Victoria," he breathes, startled, and then he makes a strange little sound as his eyes pan over their surroundings, as if he's noticing the snow for the first time. He sets the camera down and lifts a hand to feel the flakes against his palm, his lips parting in shock. "What the fuck?"  
  
Victoria puts her chin in her hand. "You _just_ noticed?" she teases. "Talk about being _consumed_ by your work, Nate."  
  
"So fucking funny," says Nathan sarcastically, the surprise wearing away. He lowers his hand. "Was this in the forecast?"  
  
"Uh, I don't know." Victoria brushes snow off of her sweater. "It's fucking weird, though."  
  
"Fucking weird," echoes Nathan. He moves to put his camera back in its case. Victoria is tempted to ask him what he's been looking at, exactly what is so distracting, but then she remembers something else— something she's much more curious about.  
  
"Hey," she says, reaching across the table to touch his arm. Nathan winces slightly, and she loosens her grip, faltering. "Um... What was up with that announcement today? You got called to the office?"  
  
Nathan's face darkens. With the sun at his back, it's hard to search his expression in the silhouette, but she gets that this isn't something minor. "It's bullshit," he says with a growl. "You remember Rachel's bitch friend? The one with the blue hair?"  
  
" _Barely,_ " says Victoria. "I don't exactly rub shoulders with degenerates. But I _do_ remember." It's hard to forget her face, even if Victoria can't be bothered to remember her name. She had clung to Rachel like ivy. There was something a little bit _too_ familiar about the both of them, Victoria had decided.  
  
"Yeah, well," says Nathan, and his tone is hard and aggressive. "She thinks I owe her money for some stupid-ass reason. So she shows up and wants to meet me in the bathroom here, and I go. Like a fucking _moron_." His expression curdles sour. "And when I don't give her the money, she—" he stumbles here, "—she freaks out, and she runs off, and that's it, right? But then ten minutes later, I get called to talk to Wells, and he says that some _other_ bitch was hiding out in the bathroom and apparently heard _everything_ and then said I was making _threats._ "  
  
"What?" says Victoria sharply. "Holy shit. Who was it?"  
  
None of this sounds good. It sounds like an impending disaster. Rachel's friend is chasing Nathan for money? Why? And who would be stupid enough to try to accuse a Prescott of making threats on Blackwell property?  
  
"That's the thing. I already know who the little rat is," snarls Nathan. "She left one of her stupid selfies on the floor."  
  
"Left...?" says Victoria, but there is a knife in her ribs that lets her know exactly who Nathan means.  
  
"Max Caulfield," he spits.  
  
"Fuck," Victoria says, and suddenly she feels like a complete idiot for ever thinking, for even a moment, that Max was alright. How could she be so _stupid?_ Of course Max was playing her. Of _course_. How the hell else could someone like _her_ receive so much of Mr. Jefferson's attention if she weren't more than meets the eye? By the time she'd been covered in paint, she'd already gone crying to the principal about Nathan, hadn't she? And she'd probably totally gotten off on her embarrassment, too. Victoria has been one-upped by Max in every single way today. "That _bitch_ ," she says, her voice hitching up as the anger mounts, "that little _asshole_ was playing all _nice_ with me today! She must think I'm fucking stupid!"  
  
Nathan's brows lower. "Huh?"  
  
"It was... never mind," says Victoria, not wanting to relive the embarrassment with Nathan. "Look, she's fucking fake. That's all that matters." She frowns. "What did Wells say?"  
  
"He's not doing _shit_ to me," vows Nathan, his eyes narrowed. "He can't do anything. And he _won't_. I could tell by the way he kept apologizing for calling me in."  
  
"That's good," says Victoria slowly. "But what about Max?"  
  
"We just make sure she never has another chance to be taken seriously ever again by this school," says Nathan confidently. "And she'll fuckin' _listen_ if she wants to hold onto her scholarship."  
  
Victoria laughs delightedly. This is Nathan at his easiest to deal with: when he's got power and a reason to use it. "That's dirty, Nate."  
  
"Yeah, well, fuck playing fair," he says. "Her _and_ her stupid friends. They're all going down. She has _no idea_ who I am." Victoria is more than ready to hear him continue to rant, but he's started to shake. He sinks his head into his hands.  
  
It's a surreal sight, Nathan sitting there cradling his head with the snow coming down around him. Victoria sits there stiffly, uncertain of what to do, before she reaches out for him, her fingers brushing against his bicep. Her mood flows in tandem with his. She can't remember a time when it hadn't, or what her life had really been like before Nathan. It's like being duty bound.  
  
"She's no one," she says quietly.  
  
"I know," Nathan says down at the table. "I know." He allows her to gently extricate his hands from his head, and she reaches to clutch at them, locking their fingers together. Nathan looks up at her, his eyes soft— too soft for her to keep looking directly into.  
  
The light catches him in a different way now. The sun's descent has been swift, and now it has disappeared behind the bleachers out on the playing field across the street. Victoria is finally able to see beyond the silhouette of him. For the first time, she notices something different: there are marks — four of them, equidistant — running down one side of his face. It's not as if this is the first time that she has found mysterious marks on Nathan. But scratches? Scratches are new.  
  
Usually, she doesn't say anything, and she's not sure if she should. But she's staring, and he seems to realize it. He turns his face the other way.  
  
"It's fine," he says, replying to a question she hadn't asked, giving her an answer she doesn't want to hear.  
  
She looks away because he wants her to. Because she can't keep looking, anyway. She realizes she's clenching her teeth beneath her sealed lips.  
  
It's then that Victoria notices the graffiti scratched into the corner of the table. It looks fresh, the grooves still exposing clean, pale wood— like it was dug out today.  
  
**VORTEX CLUB SUX** , it mocks.

   
  


Courtney is eager to volunteer after Victoria's claim that she is simply too stressed out this week to bother with homework, and so she's set off early with her assignments. Victoria can't feel _too_ bad about it; Courtney had _wanted_ to, after all, asking if maybe Victoria would like to help her out with statistics homework in exchange, a request she has waved off with a 'maybe' that functions as a 'no'.  
  
That leaves her with Taylor, who has promised to drive her to the dry cleaner's later to drop off her sweater, on Tuesday morning— and with Kate Marsh, who is already in the bathroom when they walk in.  
  
Victoria is pleased to see her. She has been in a terrible mood since yesterday that shows no signs of abating. Kate looks so small standing there— and Victoria is desperate to feel big.  
  
"What's up, Kate?" she sings happily, leaning into the sink.  
  
"School." Kate won't look up at either her or Taylor, who is flanking her other side.  
  
"That's it?" snorts Taylor.  
  
"That video of you clubbing didn't look like homework," Victoria reminds her.  
  
That causes Kate's head to jerk up, but it's only briefly, like a reflex, before she looks back down at her hands, where she's white knuckling the sink. "Victoria, that wasn't me."  
  
"Oh my god, _right,_ " says Taylor sarcastically, somewhat impatient.  
  
_Wasn't her?_ Hilarious. Victoria wants to pull her phone out right now and force Kate to watch it. She wants to say, _Look at yourself,_ and she wants to say, _What happened to abstinence,_ and she wants to say _Tell me that you really deserve this._  
  
"Don't be shy," she says soothingly. She leans over Kate, who isn't exactly short, but seems so much younger right now, her face makeupless, her feet bare on the tiles. "I think it's _awesome_ you set a tongue record on video..."  
  
This is apparently too much for Kate, who heaves herself away from the sink and leaves without even gathering her things. "You're going to be sorry one day," she whispers as she slips out the door.  
  
Victoria twists her face into an approximation of mock sympathy as she goes. "Oh, _boo hoo_ ," she sighs. "I'm sorry you're a viral slut." She turns her face towards Taylor with a little whip of her head. "I'm sure she had fun."  
  
"Looks like it."  
  
"I _know_ Nathan hooked her up," says Victoria much more firmly than she feels about it, but who else would be selling at a Vortex Club party if not Nathan? "And you _know_ he has the good shit."  
  
"Preach it, sista." Taylor grins as Victoria leans over the sink and peers into the mirror.  
  
To her mortification, there is still a smear of white — so small it could be a freckle — on her cheek. "Yuck. I still have goddamn paint all over my face." She shoots Taylor a glare, although she knows that she would likely be sending the look to Courtney instead were she here as well. "Good thing my faithful _minions_ took their sweet time bringing me a towel."  
  
There is a stunned silence, before Taylor begins, "We ran all the way—"  
  
Her stomach lurches, slightly guilty, but Victoria is not going to back down. "Give it a rest, Taylor. Now I know if I'm in an accident I won't rely on you _or_ Courtney for help. You can hang out with _Kate_... or _Max_."  
  
Taylor is frozen there, staring at her, her eyes wide. Victoria refuses to look at her, staring at her own reflection. Finally Taylor says, "She's a weirdo with that dumb camera," and then looks to her hesitantly, as if seeking approval.  
  
Victoria latches onto the opportunity. "I hate that _'I'm so quirky!'_ crap," she hisses, and then, remembering that there are still whispers about where to find Kate's video as the rumor gains traction throughout the school rather than just on the internet, adds, " _Anyway,_ let's leave the link to Kate's video so _everybody_ gets a chance to see her in action." She reaches across the sink for Kate's abandoned makeup.  
  
"You are _such_ an evil beeatch. I love it!"  
  
She grins, feeling superior as she slips the cap off of Kate's lipstick and lifts it to the mirror to write.  
  
**HTTP://KATESVID.COM**  
  
She tosses the lipstick down into the sink when she's finished. Taylor laughs as they leave the bathroom together, reaching for her car keys. "Oh my god," she says. "Is this _ever_ going to get old? Like, will this ever stop being funny?"  
  
Victoria laughs. " _Never_ ," she says.  
  
"Did you know that peeps are saying that Kate thinks someone dosed her?" Taylor says, shaking her head. "Like, she thinks someone slipped her something. _Her._ "  
  
Victoria's stomach clenches up. "Yeah, right," she says, but she's stopped laughing.  
  
"She's so two-faced. Doesn't that totally remind you of Rachel Amber?"  
  
Dread makes all of her veins run hot. "Yeah," she murmurs. "Like Rachel Amber."  
  
But not in the way that Taylor is thinking. 

   
  


"Hey, babe," says a voice in her ear as she brushes past a bank of lockers on her way to photography class. The remark is followed by a hand snatching at her sweater.  
  
Victoria turns. "Nathan," she says, looking him over. He must be in a decent mood; she can tell just by the pet name. Nathan never seems confident enough to use them unless he's riding some kind of high— emotional or physical. "Any news on the that shit with the principal?"  
  
"No," he says. "You got class with that _rat_ whore now, though, don't you?" He spits out the words, as fiery as he is buoyant, like a paper lantern.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Come on." As they walk towards room 102, Victoria notices Kate Marsh having some kind of discussion with Mr. Jefferson in the hallway. She doesn't manage to catch any of their conversation before Nathan is pulling her inside.  
  
"Hey," greets Hayden from where he is shooting Dana with Taylor. Nathan nods at him before hopping up onto Max's unoccupied desk, kicking his feet out at her chair to rest them there.  
  
"What's got you all jacked up?" Victoria asks him as she slides up onto the desk next to him. "Aside from your meds."  
  
"Showin' her why she should keep out of my _fuck_ ing business." Nathan rocks where he sits, unable to keep still, one leg jolting, and then he says, casually, "I trashed her room this morning."  
  
"Are you serious?" Victoria is slightly shocked. Not that Nathan has been in the girls' dormitory, or even that he broke into a room — he pretty much owns the building, and she knows it — but trashing Max's room? Victoria isn't so sure if even _she_ would do something like that, but then again, she isn't protected in quite the same way. And maybe... Maybe this isn't the first time, either.  
  
Victoria remembers a moment from their final year of high school, right before graduating. Nathan had gotten into some kind of altercation with his father. Victoria had not been certain of the specifics, only that it had resulted in two things, one of them, perhaps, coincidental. The first was that Nathan had been so agitated by the incident that he'd chosen to crash at Hayden's place for three days rather than return home, and the second — the coincidental part — was that Sean Prescott's beloved Mustang had been vandalized with what was either a crowbar or a baseball bat. Whoever had done it wasn't after valuables, because nothing had been upturned. The only thing the vandal seemed to want to do was beat it beyond repair.  
  
Although Nathan had never said anything about it, she'd understood implicitly that he had done it, and she'd considered it justified— but she hadn't wanted to imagine him doing it, either, hadn't wanted to envision rage twisting his face or the splintering glass flying in front of it or the force of the swings. For whatever reason, she doesn't want to picture Nathan that way.  
  
"Yeah," Nathan's saying, and he's laughing. There's something sublime on his face, something reverent and manic. Victoria's chest constricts to see it, and she pulls away from what it could mean.  
  
She is reminded, very sharply and suddenly, of the impossible expanse that stretches between herself and Nathan. Like the thread of a spider, it sways but never snaps.  
  
_What's going on?_ she wants to ask. _It can't just be Max. Are you okay?_  
  
But how does she even know that something _isn't_ okay?  
  
Someone slips through the door. Victoria looks back over her shoulder. The teacher's pet herself is there. "Max," she warns. Nathan shoots over a look, too, and something shudders through his body like a bolt. Victoria waits until Max comes close before she asks, a little too loudly, "Do you think Max will be pissed we're sitting at her desk?"  
  
"Oh, I'm sure she'll report us to the principal," agrees Nathan amicably. There's something potent in his voice, and it makes her want to back away from the heat of it just as much as she wants to press close to its warmth. "Like I give a flying fuck."  
  
His leg is still convulsing, making the chair shudder against the tiles. He looks at her sideways and gives her a little nudge, his forearm brushing her bicep. Victoria's stomach roils. He's casual about it. He doesn't seem to notice or realize that he's only ever casual about it when he's like this— when he's funneling his energy elsewhere, talking himself up, making himself _big_. She tightens her grip on the desk and does not move her hands, even though part of her wants to. How can she fault him for it when she's the same way?  
  
Victoria hopes that Max is hanging onto every word, because she lets the anger flare in her voice when she says, "Or she'll run to Mr. Jefferson. Like he _gives_ a shit!"  
  
"Like _anybody_ does. Max is such a little—"  
  
"Shhh," interrupts Victoria exaggeratedly. Max has come to a stop in front of the desk, staring at them both. "I think she can hear us."  
  
"Better be quiet, Victoria." Nathan eases back to get a good look at her. Victoria is again reminded that it's at moments like these, when he's in total, unquestioned control, that Nathan is most present and aware and grounded. Right now, he exudes power. "We have a master snitch and liar here."  
  
"Did you think we were best friends forever, or something?" Victoria slits her eyes at Max, smiling coldly. She is going to make it clear right now that she is never going to be stupid enough to play nice with Max Caulfield ever again.  
  
But Max is ready for it. She slants her head and simply says, "Not at all, Victoria." The cool tone with which she delivers the line throws her off balance.  
  
_Like Rachel._  
  
"Max is such an attention whore," taunts Nathan.  
  
"You would know," says Max. "Can I sit down now?"  
  
"Oh, _please_ do." Victoria slides off of the desk, sizing her up. "Take a selfie of this moment." She just barely manages to contain the urge to check Max with her shoulder as she brushes past. Nathan postures as if he might try, but all he does is hover before moving away.  
  
"Yeah, Max. So I won't forget you."  
  
Victoria watches from the corner as Max sinks down into her chair, her head bowed. She presses her lips together tightly. "She thinks she's so much better than everyone else," she says, "just because Mr. Jefferson thinks her _technique_ is cute. So she tries to pull this shit like she doesn't care what anyone else thinks and then sucks up to people like the Principal. It's _so_ fucking transparent."  
  
But is that really it? Telling herself and convincing herself are two completely different demons.  
  
And isn't this what Rachel would always do? Accept her words at face value and then return them like unopened letters, as though she'd never heard them? Victoria can't _stand_ it. She wants to reach out and wrap her hands in Max's sweater and just _shake_ her, shake her so hard that she just turns to dust between her fingers.  
  
What _is_ it? What is it about Max? What is it about Rachel?  
  
"She's due for a nasty wake up call," says Nathan, sneering. He's talking to her, but he's still looking at Max, his blue eyes bright, nearly gleaming. "The end of the world is coming."  
  
"Do you mean the party," she starts, "or—"  
  
Mr. Jefferson walks in as the bell goes off. Nathan looks up at the same time as Victoria.  
  
"See you later?" he prompts.  
  
"Yeah," she says, and Nathan sets off for the exit.  
  
"Okay, I know you love me," says Mr. Jefferson as he circles the room, "but if you're not in this class, _beat it._ Everybody else, please sit down. We have a lot to cover today, and so little time, as usual. I see all the usual suspects here... Anybody seen Kate Marsh?"  
  
Victoria drops into her chair, stretching her legs out. Kate's desk _is_ empty. Interesting. Wasn't Mr. Jefferson _just_ talking to her outside?  
  
"I think _everybody_ has seen Kate Marsh by now," she remarks. Taylor begins laughing next to her.  
  
Mr. Jefferson's voice is harsh. He looks at her for one sharp moment, his face hard. "Sounds like you're giggling about a video gone viral," he says, and Victoria goes silent. He's looking around as he talks. "Maybe it involves a student, or a friend? I wonder how it would feel to have false images of yourself shot out all over the world for people to judge..."  
  
At this point, Victoria tunes out. She is implicitly, mutely aware that what he is saying could easily be a direct attack on her person. But there's no fucking way he knows about her involvement, and she's not going to let herself linger on the thought or become paranoid about it. _No_ fucking way. So she pretends she doesn't hear any of it, that it's not at all relevant to her. She examines her nails and flips through the pages of her notebook. Next to her, Taylor begins texting.  
  
A shout breaks through both her concentration and what Mr. Jefferson is lecturing about.  
  
"Yo!" It's Zach at the door. He's jumpy, yelling at full volume. Everyone turns to stare. "Some crazy shit is going down at the girls' dorm! Check it!"  
  
"Zachary, do not come into my class like that ever again!"  
  
Everyone gets up. Victoria gets to her feet, too. She hurries behind Taylor.  
  
"Listen! Everybody remain seated—"  
  
Where _is_ Kate?

   
  


There are people streaking from all corners of campus to get to the dormitory. Whatever is happening, it's huge.  
  
Kate stands with her feet braced at the edge of the roof.  
  
It's raining, and Victoria's cashmere is getting drenched again, but this time, she isn't even thinking about it. Her heart is pounding in her temples, pulsing in her skull, a malignant growth. She stares up at Kate standing there like the crowning point of an altar.  
  
What the hell is happening? This isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't—  
  
She sees a flash of red in the crowd.  
  
" _Nathan!_ " she shouts, suddenly terrified. She reaches out for his jacket and catches it. He turns around to look at her. He's wild eyed, and he barely seems to see her.  
  
"L— let me go," he stutters, and to her shock, he pushes her hand away, and then he turns to shove his way through the crowd, physically thrusting others out of his way. She watches as he shoulders past their classmates, breaking through to the front. She staggers back into Taylor, who puts an arm around her waist.  
  
_I don't know what to do,_ she thinks, and the thought is a lot like a scream.  
  
Maybe it's because she doesn't know what to do that she does what's easiest. Maybe it's in moments like these that Victoria is the most honest with herself.  
  
Or maybe this is what just happens because of the kind of person she is. The person she hates herself for being.  
  
It doesn't matter. Victoria slips a lens between herself and Kate, and through its two-way filter, she feels that they are both safe from one another.  
  
Through the screen, Kate is barely visible, just a dark slash against a white sky. This is no close-up, no intimate view. There are no roaming hands, no lashing tongues, no blown pupils. She is not seeing any of this in macro.  
  
Everything is laid out on her screen. Kate's entire life, her entire self, caught within the frame.  
  
She doesn't know how much time passes before Kate abruptly turns her back on them all, distracted. She motions as though speaking to someone. The people on all sides of Victoria continue to speculate, to fear, to shout for Kate to come down.  
  
And then she does.  
  
When she steps down and disappears from sight, everyone holds their breath. Madsen has already disappeared into the building. It's another couple of minutes before the doors open again.  
  
Three people emerge: Madsen, Kate, and Max Caulfield. Max's presence _should_ be a shock, should make her wonder how the hell she got up there so fast, but it's not.  
  
By now, both the paramedics and the police have pulled up. Victoria realizes that she's still holding her phone. Her hands have gone numb, and not because of the rain.  
  
She watches Kate Marsh being rushed into the ambulance, and she remembers another time when she had stood aside, paralyzed, as paramedics took someone away.  
  
She thinks about Nathan, standing at the front of the crowd.  
  
Victoria looks down at her phone, at the video still recording there. She hits _STOP_. She looks up at Taylor. Horror has begun to settle in, a miasma of it replacing the air in her lungs.  
  
She thinks about Kate, all alone there on the roof.  
  
_I did this._  
  
She thinks about Rachel, about the last time they'd ever spoken, about the look in her eyes.  
  
_I did this._  
  
The crowd is beginning to thin and disperse, urged by the police to begin clearing out. Students hover around like ghosts, shocked mindless. Victoria brushes Taylor away and pushes through the crowd on shaky legs until she sees him again. He's still standing right by the doors.  
  
Right where Kate would have landed.  
  
The rain has turned his jacket to wet blood.  
  
"Nathan," says Victoria, and her voice comes out trembling.  
  
He turns to look at her. And it's strange, almost, how _alive_ his eyes are, but how very dead the rest of him is.  
  
If he pushes her away this time, she realizes, she's not sure what she's supposed to do. But what is she expecting from him? Answers? Enlightenment? How can he give that to her? Why would he, when Kate was surely on that roof because—  
  
Because—  
  
"Did you see her?" Nathan is asking, and Victoria could scream at him, ask him what the fuck he's talking about, but he clearly isn't speaking to her. He's laughing then, choking it out in strange sob-like sounds. "Did you... did you _see_ her...?"  
  
_No_ , she could say. _Yes,_ she could say.  
  
Or, _I don't know,_ because she _doesn't_ , because she didn't look, not _really_ , she had her lens up, she put herself on the other _side—_  
  
"Nathan, _please_ ," Victoria starts, and she knows she's begging, but she doesn't know what _for_ , doesn't know why she's asking Nathan of all people for it when he has never had much to give. How can he tell her that everything is alright?  
  
Nathan looks down at her. His eyes are deep trenches. They see right into her. His focus clears, somewhat. She sucks the rainwater off of her lower lip, blinks it out of her eyes. He reaches for her, catching her behind the elbow.  
  
"Victoria—"  
  
" _Prescott!_ "  
  
It's Madsen, who is stomping over to the both of them. Victoria feels a swell of panic as Nathan lets her go and steps away— the sort she hasn't felt in years, the kind she'd been convinced she had completely slaughtered in her system.  
  
"With me!" shouts Madsen at Nathan. "Now!" He gives Nathan a hard push between the shoulder blades. Nathan flinches, turning on him like a defensive animal, but he obeys, stumbling forward.  
  
Victoria stands there. Her wrists twitch. She grasps at the air. "Wait," she says, muffling the whimper that wants to escape, "I _need_ him."  
  
No one hears her. The rain runs into her mouth.

   
  


_Victoria, answer. It's my turn to be hard on you._  
  
It's the ninth text from Taylor. Victoria reads it and sets her phone down again and curls up tighter around herself in her bed.  
  
She takes stock of the past several hours, slowly moving through the list, trying to keep her breaths slow and even.  
  
Wells. He'd called her, telling her that the police were interested in speaking with her later in the week, before wishing her well.  
  
Kate on the roof. She'd deleted the video at some point, sometime between staggering out of the rain into the dorms and now. She doesn't remember when. She's glad it's gone.  
  
Rachel. Her poster with its crossed-out eyes is sitting right over there on her shelf. _I should have ripped it up,_ she thinks through the mute swell of panic, _but I can't even move._  
  
Max, Blackwell's own Everyday Hero. Unbelievable.  
  
And Nathan. Nathan is the only thing unaccounted for, aside from Victoria's sense of reality. He's the only one she's tried texting. She still hasn't seen the screen say _read_.  
  
_nathan im fucking freaking out_  
_nathan answer_  
_where are you_  
_nathan_  
  
An e-mail from Wells arrives in her inbox. The subject is _TODAY'S INCIDENT._ Victoria rubs her eyes until they feel raw before she opens it.  
  
It's addressed to the Vortex Club mailing group, but it feels like it's meant for her and only her. In it, Wells says that Thursday's party may be cancelled, and then he extends his sympathies. Victoria lacks the energy to even think of him as an asshole now.  
  
But the e-mail includes something else: the name of the hospital that Kate is staying at. It's a large facility located slightly outside of town.  
  
Victoria sits up, stares at the name, murmurs it. Kate is there now. Kate is safe now. _Kate is..._  
  
Kate is alive, with no thanks to her.  
  
She pulls open her desk and sorts through it until she finds a stack of stationery, but she doesn't know what to write. Kate knows as well as she does what brought her to that roof. She _must_ know.  
  
Rachel languidly smiles up at her from her poster. Victoria backs away from it. She wants to turn it face down, wants to tear it in two, but suddenly she's afraid to touch it.  
  
Which is fucking absurd. All of this is so— so _senseless_ , so completely fucking unreal. As much as Victoria thrives on drama, its ricochet effect had always benefited her, only enhancing her reputation. She's always played it smart, always known when to fold, which was rarely. But now— now it feels like everything's coming down on her at once.  
  
The retaining wall has collapsed, and Rachel Amber is there behind it, smirking, toying with her feather earring, saying, _You get what you give._  
  
Victoria curls up on her bed again as a tenth text message arrives from Taylor. She decides that she'll respond this time. Instead of texting her, though, Victoria opens her e-mail. There's a distance — almost a formality — to it, and that keeps her levelheaded as she types blindly, without much thought or effort. Her message is succinct and guilty but cold. It'll let Taylor know everything she needs to know, Victoria decides. She needs no more than this. Just enough to sate her and make her stop the fucking texting.  
  
She really _does_ want a drink, though.  
  
As soon as she sends the e-mail to Taylor, another arrives in her inbox. She expects it to be from Wells again, but it's from Nathan. She stares, suddenly afraid, before tapping it open.  
  
He seems furious. Gone is the strange, desperate euphoria he had been radiating like nuclear fallout out there in the rain. He writes that he has been suspended, that his parents have lost their shit, and he closes it with a vow that the End of the World party is going to happen no matter what.  
  
_You in?_ it ends.  
  
It's a lifeline, affording her the chance to square her shoulders again. She considers phoning him for a moment, but then opens the e-mail to begin a reply.  
  
There is a knock at her door.  
  
"Victoria?" It's Courtney.  
  
Her phone drops to the floor with a clatter. " _What?_ " she snaps, startled. Her nerves are so worn that this single interruption of her thoughts has caused them to break entirely. She doesn't want Courtney right now. She doesn't want anyone right now but Nathan.  
  
"I have your—" Courtney starts quietly.  
  
"Go _away!_ "  
  
There is no response from the other side of the door. After a moment, something slips beneath through the crack, and then Victoria hears footsteps disappearing down the hall.  
  
She steps closer. They're the tests and papers that Courtney promised to deliver to her this morning. Fuck, it feels like a fucking lifetime ago. And Courtney was _still_ able to finish them after today?  
  
Victoria wishes she had the decency to run after her. Wishes she were the kind of person who could dash after her friend, begging, _I'm sorry, I didn't mean it._  
  
But she's not that kind of person for Courtney or even for Taylor.  
  
She's only ever that kind of person for Nathan.  
  
The e-mail she sends back to him is perhaps too blatantly weighted with bravado, but no more than he has presented. Victoria wonders to herself, bitterly, why the both of them try so hard to posture at one another when there's nobody else around to see. Despite it all, nothing has broken their pattern of defensiveness. No strangely tender moment with Nathan has been enough to break its rhythm, has been hard enough to make either one of them concede to whatever it is.  
  
Over and over and over. Postures and masks.  
  
How many times is she going to circle back with Nathan to this point? How many times has she told herself not to, again and again?  
  
She tells him she'll text him later. She doesn't write that she wishes she could hear his voice.  
  
Victoria sits on the edge of her bed and watches as the sun begins to sink down the slope of the sky. Her phone lights up: her mother is trying to call. Victoria answers, mechanically. By the time she has hung up, her body is as hollow and cold as the disappointment in her mother's voice, in the way she'd said _We've been informed that you've been involved in an incident_ , and the world outside has stained orange, rendering her room in scarlets and golds.  
  
She thinks about Kate with her back to the sky.  
  
Abruptly, she begins to sob. Her head sinks down towards her hands, and she rocks over herself, trying to choke it back. But it hurts to hold it in, really physically _hurts_ ; it comes out in bursts, and it feels like retching. She grinds the heels of her palms into her eyes and weeps.  
  
She hears her door open.  
  
Victoria lifts her head. She expects to see Taylor there— or Courtney. She flinches.  
  
"Nathan," she says.  
  
He pushes the door the rest of the way open. He's smiling, but it's hesitant, like maybe — somehow — he'd known what to expect when he'd opened it. She sits up. He lingers in the doorway. The moment hangs.  
  
It's so quiet.  
  
"Hey," she says thickly, and she reaches up hurriedly to rub at her eyes, to wipe her face with her sleeve. "Don't— don't just fucking stand there, close the door," she adds, and although she wants it to come out rough, she's relieved when it doesn't.  
  
Nathan listens, shouldering it shut, and then he moves closer to her. He still hasn't said anything. The marks raking his cheek flare scorching red in the low light.  
  
"So," she starts, sucking up a breath, "you got suspended—"  
  
He sinks down next to her and says, "It wasn't you."  
  
Tears flood hot into her eyes. "Stop," she says, barely manages it.  
  
"It wasn't," he says again, slower, as if he thinks she has misheard him. She is reminded of that moment seven years ago when they first met, when he'd had to ask her twice if he could take her photo, as if he couldn't understand why not.  
  
Is he still that boy?  
  
Had she ever known that boy? Where is he now?  
  
The tears roll down her cheeks and onto her tights, where they bloom like flowers, spreading out into the cotton. Rotting on the vine.  
  
"Shut up," says Victoria, and she's weeping again. "Shut up. Shut _up._ " He's quiet, but he lets her keep saying it, even as she puts a fist against his chest and thuds it there. Once. Twice. "Stop." She shouldn't want to put her hands against him and press until her palms sink in like he's made of mud and clay. But she does. She does. She grinds her fist harder into his chest. It doesn't give. He's solid.  
  
He's not something she can shape.  
  
"Vic," he says softly. She doesn't know how to answer.  
  
The room starts to darken, shadows oozing into the room like ink. Victoria looks up and out of the window.  
  
The sun has lifted a shield, and light is seeping out around the edges. The world turns black and orange.  
  
"An eclipse?" The surprise is enough to numb the rest of her head out. It's a relief.  
  
"End of the world," breathes Nathan, but she's not sure if he's really said it at all, or if she's only heard it in her head.  
  
There is something sedating about this abrupt night, and Nathan seems to understand it, too. Victoria can feel his breaths slow and warm and close to her neck. For a little while — she doesn't know how long — her world is contained within this room just as Kate's had been within her lens. There is nothing but shadow and the low buzz of electricity humming through the strip of lights on her wall.  
  
She could stay here forever with him. She wants to.  
  
She can't.  
  
As the eclipse begins to sink away, so does the rest of her energy. Victoria turns to Nathan, who hasn't moved. She thinks of the other times she's shared a bed with him. Always his. Never her own. Where had she felt safer? She isn't sure.  
  
Victoria reaches for his hands, and she carefully tugs him down to the bed with her. Nathan goes easily, although he winces, like he's braced for harm. She eases her grip on him, but she doesn't let go. Not this time. She's not going to let him brush her away like he had out in the rain this afternoon. The moment plays out, tense, and they lay there like still objects, but then he suddenly slides his arms around her waist. She realizes that she's shaking. She tries to seize every muscle in her body, to turn to porcelain, to be hard and unflawed.  
  
It's never worked. Not even when she's been able to hide the cracks in her veneer.  
  
Nathan is warm, and he's solid in ways that she doesn't expect, ways she's never gotten to experience before. His shoulders are wide, and there is a space against one of them, like a hollow, that her head fits right against. She can feel the pulse in his neck against her temple. The spaces between the hard ridges of his spine are exactly the right size to press her fingertips into.  
  
The room stains red again. The eclipse is over. Victoria feels as if she is being encased in magma, gone molten. Maybe she'll reform into something new.  
  
Does Kate feel this way, too, wherever she is? Is she seeing the same sky?  
  
Is Rachel?  
  
The trembling gradually slows. Nathan holds her tighter, completely silent, and it's so strange, she thinks with grief, to ache for him even now when he's right here with her. When she's the only thing in his entire world. The heartsick might be the thing she hates herself the most for, because she can't even figure out _why_. All of these years, and she still doesn't know _why._  
  
She's always reaching for him. Always.  
  
The shadows finally lengthen into night, true night, and Victoria begins to detach from herself. She times her breaths with Nathan's pulse.  
  
But by the time she wakes up a few hours later, she is alone in her bed, and Nathan is already gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on Tumblr [here](http://mjrrgr.tumblr.com), if you'd like. 
> 
> Comments, critique, questions— all are encouraged and appreciated. If you enjoy this fic, please consider leaving a kudos or, even better, a comment. I really thrive on feedback; I want to know what you think! 
> 
> Part two of the final chapter will be coming soon. My Tumblr will have a more specific estimate once I get closer to releasing it.


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